Across Every Universe (You Are Home)
by Scallisaac
Summary: I've been getting a lot of Westallen prompts on tumblr so I decided to make a compilation of them all on here to have them all in one place! This is a collection of prompts based on AUs, key words, phrases, quotes, etc. that people have sent me. (side note: I absolutely take requests if you want me to write something for you!)
1. The Mask You Wear

_**Prompt: meeting at a masquerade ball AU**_

**xXx**

The first time Iris meets Barry Allen, he's wearing a mask. Actually, they both are, at first.

It starts with an invitation. Iris loves getting dressed up—for as long as she can remember, she's been a master of picking out the perfect clothes, of accessorizing, of flaunting whatever cute dresses she can get her hands on—at least with what she can manage on her starting salary as a budding news reporter for the local paper.

She's considered starting a fashion blog of her own, doling out advice wherever she can, in addition to her current one chronicling the heroics of Central City's very own super-hero—but she just doesn't have the time.

So of course she's beside herself when her connections as a reporter and journalist score her an invitation to attend the highly esteemed annual ball held in Central City.

From what she's gathered, according to a few of her colleagues at work who have also received an invite, the people in charge of the event like to get creative. To spice things up, there's a different theme picked each time. This year, the theme is masquerade, and Iris is ecstatic. She's through the roof.

Not only does she get to dress up, she also gets to indulge in the air of mystery that goes with it. Iris loves mysteries, always has, and in the days leading up to the ball she's practically bursting with excitement over the idea of everyone being in masks, of the mystery surrounding their hidden identities, and behind figuring out who is who.

It's this very fascination with mysteries, in exploring the unknown, that's probably the reason she became an investigative journalist in the first place. It's also a lot of what's driving her to keep tabs on The Flash, compelling her to discover the identity of the man behind the mask.

By the time the ball rolls around, she's already got everything perfectly laid out, from her dress to her shoes to her makeup to everything else, so it isn't the usual mad-rush to get out the door.

She smiles at her reflection in the mirror after she's gotten herself all ready, admiring her work, before slipping on her final addition, the jeweled little mask that covers a small part of her face, the one that she bought the other day when she had come across it at the mall and noticed that it had exactly matched the color of her dress. It's perfect.

When she arrives, she's relieved to see that she hasn't over-done it, that everyone else is dressed just as elaborately. She nods approvingly as she weaves through the crowds of people, appreciating everyone's unique stylistic choices.

Even with their masks, it's not too hard to find a couple of her friends from work. She dances with them until her feet hurt, and when she's had her fill she excuses herself from their company to take a break and rest her aching legs.

She sits down at a little table in the back of the room, sighing loudly and contentedly as she slips her heels off and leans back in the chair, allowing her eyes to flutter closed. It's not until she hears the scrape of something against the floor that she opens them again and realizes she's not alone.

There's a guy sitting in the chair next to her, looking uncomfortable and out of place, pushing out his chair out as though he's preparing to leave.

Even sitting down, Iris can tell that he's tall and lanky, and even with the mask obscuring part of his face, it's hard to miss that he's pretty attractive. He freezes when he notices her staring at him, just as he's about to get up.

"Oh, sorry," he says, sheepish, as though he actually has something to apologize for. "I was just leaving. I don't want to disturb you."

Iris always has always had a soft spot for cute, awkward people, and this guy is adorable. She instantly finds him endearing, and she smiles and waves a hand at him, motioning him to sit back down.

"No, stay. Don't worry about it, really, you were here first. I just needed a break. Sorry if I'm intruding, by the way—I didn't even see you there. Oh, and I'm Iris," she says, extending a hand. She watches as some of his uncertainty drains away, and he seems to relax a bit.

His answering smile makes her heart flutter, because if she thought he was just cute before, she was sorely mistaken. He is_ incredibly_ cute.

"Barry Allen," he responds, accepting her handshake, and even though she's just met him it's almost as though there's a familiarity in his touch. "And no, you're not intruding or anything. I'm just…taking a break, too."

He's a really bad liar, and Iris raises an eyebrow at him in question, silently calling him out on it. His shoulders slump a little.

"Okay, fine, I'm not taking a break. I don't dance. Well, I _can't_ dance, actually."

He looks embarrassed, and she watches as a blush creeps up his neck. She doesn't think twice before resting a hand on top of his, as though that's a totally normally thing for a stranger to do, and tries to give him a reassuring smile.

"I'm sure you're not that bad. And who cares if you are? It's not for everyone."

He looks grateful, and Iris feels a thrill of satisfaction at having been able to cheer him up, and at successfully earning another one of his adorable smiles.

"I am curious, though," she says, tilting her head, "why come to this, then? It doesn't seem like your kind of thing."

He shrugs, as though he's not really sure why, either.

"My friend Cisco had an extra invite. He kind of dragged me along, told me I needed to get out more, relieve some stress, take a break from—from work."

He doesn't elaborate, but Iris senses that he's hiding something. It's strange—his face is so expressive, so open and honest, and she can tell he's not shy about hiding his emotions—and yet he's still got this air of mystery about him, like he's got a whole bag of little secrets that Iris is already itching to find out. Because she's already decided that she really likes Barry Allen, and really wouldn't mind getting to know him better.

An idea enters her mind, and she figures if she's going to be friends with him, why not start now?

She hops up from her seat and grabs his hand, tugs at it, taking him by surprise.

"Well, come on, then. Let's start de-stressing you."

He blinks at her, uncomprehending, rooted to his chair.

"Um, what?"

"Dance with me! I mean, not if it makes you uncomfortable, I know you said you don't really dance, but I could teach you. Not to brag, but I'm a pretty stellar dance partner."

She winks at him, and he smiles at her uncertainly.

"I don't know…"

"Come on, it'll be fun, I promise. And if you hate it, we'll stop. I wouldn't lie to you."

She's not sure what it is, exactly, but as he searches her face, partially hidden beneath her mask, there's a flicker of something in his eyes, something she can't quite place, and something in her expression must finally convince him.

He nods, and allows her to pull him to his feet and drag him towards the dance floor, towards the crowds of people swaying happily to the beat of the music.

It turns out he really isn't lying—he_ is_ a terrible dancer, and he treads on her feet a lot more than once after she instructs him to place his hands on her hips and attempts to guide his steps. Never once does she lose patience with him, though, and his company more than makes up for it.

It really is worth it, and they really do have fun, and by the end of the night, long after they've stopped dancing, they're laughing and swapping stories like old friends, really getting to know each other.

When it comes time for them to leave, they exchange numbers with the promise to keep in touch, and they set up a time and day to meet up at her old workplace, Jitters, that's not quite a date—it is, really, Iris thinks to herself, and they both know it, but they never actually say the word.

Either way, she hasn't hit it off this well with someone in a while, and she's looking forward to seeing him again.

Oddly enough, the next time she does see Barry Allen, it's sooner than she expects, and he's wearing a mask again—only this time she's not, and his is different.

She's sitting on her couch, watching the morning news before work, when a story comes on about The Flash stopping a bank robbery, caught on one of the security cameras.

Evidently, The Flash doesn't know he's being filmed, and there's a brief moment where the red blur slows and a man is clearly distinguishable in its place, stopping to check on a figure lying on the ground, someone who must've been knocked out by the robber before he got there.

The Flash bends over the figure, probably checking their pulse, and after assuring that the person is okay, he speeds away. There's a brief moment, before he blurs again, where the camera catches a full, if blurry, view of him.

She replays the segment over and over, mind reeling, finally pausing on the closest shot of his face she can manage.

The footage is grainy, but there's no mistaking it. She's sure—she recognizes the body structure, and she's seen that face behind a mask before.

Barry Allen—sweet, awkward, adorable, blushing Barry Allen—is The Flash.

It should be hard to believe, but somehow she's not even surprised. Well, she _is_ surprised that after all this time, after all of her efforts to uncover The Flash's identity, she finds out like this, so abruptly and unexpected. But she's not surprised that it's someone as kind-hearted as Barry.

She chews her lip thoughtfully before making up her mind, taking out her phone and sending Barry a quick text.

_'Dude. I saw you on the news today'._

Almost as an after thought, she adds _'Nice mask ;)'_.

She watches as the little check appears next to her message, assuring her it's been read, and the little bubble appears that tells her Barry is typing a response. Clearly he's struggling to come up with something to say, and after minutes of waiting, after she starts to wonder whether he's even going to respond at all, her phone buzzes in her hand. And then again, and then again—a string of panicky messages.

_'Oh, shit.'_

_'Um.'_

_'How did you know?'_

_'Please don't tell anyone.'_

_'Can we talk?'_

And then, to top it all off:

_'…are we still on for coffee tomorrow?'_

She dissolves into laughter, to the point where there are tears in her eyes, her heart swelling with affection. She's just uncovered his secret identity, and he's worried about whether she still wants to go on a date with him. Unbelievable. She doesn't think she's ever felt this overwhelmed.

Grinning to herself, she sends her response that no, she's not going to tell anyone, that yes, they definitely need to talk, and that of course, they're still on for tomorrow.

Idly, she notes that she's being far more calm about this than she has any right to be, and suspects that she might be in something like shock—the freaking out will probably come later.

For now, as she waits for Barry's to respond again, she thinks about what she might be getting herself into, and marvels at her amazing judgment of character.


	2. Something About That Girl

_**Prompt: Reverse Flash goes back in time and creates an alternative timeline where Iris and Barry never meet until after Barry becomes the Flash**_

**xXx**

When he wakes up, it's all of a sudden, and in a cold sweat. His eyes snap open, and when he tries to sit up he finds there are wires tugging at his skin, tethering him to something. His heart is hammering in his chest, so unusually fast he's afraid he might be dying—a notion not so improbable considering those wires are connected to a machine that's steadily beeping away, and that machine upon closer inspection turns out to be heart monitor, and according to what he can see on the screen, he appears to be flat-lining.

But that can't be, because other than the initial shock of waking so abruptly from a dream that felt so real, he feels fine. More than fine, actually—he feels more awake than ever, like he's bursting full of energy, like there's electricity crackling just beneath his fingertips.

He takes in his surroundings and dully registers that he's not at home. He's in some sort of lab, and it seems oddly familiar, but his mind is still foggy and his thoughts are all muddled and he can't quite put a finger on it.

He tries to recall what he'd been doing last, before he'd been sleeping, but the only images his mind manages to call up are that of a face that's already becoming blurry, already fading, but that he'd known so well in his sleep.

The girl in his dream, the one he'd seemed to know from some other lifetime, the reason he had been so reluctant to be forced back awake. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to burn the image of her smile to the back of his mind. He doesn't want to forget her—whoever she was, she'd seemed important.

"Oh my God, Barry! Cisco, come quick! Barry's awake!"

He barely has time to open his eyes again before he's being pulled into a hug, so tight he can barely breathe, but the arms around him are familiar, and so is that voice. So is that name.

"Geez, Caitlin. Let him breathe—you're gonna suffocate him like that."

This voice is familiar too—teasing but with barely contained delight—and his mind is finally starting to catch up again, the ghost of memories of this place, of these people, skirting around his thoughts.

When the person hugging him pulls away, and he catches sight of the two people hovering over him, beaming at him with tears stuck in their eyes, it all comes rushing back.

"Caitlin? Cisco? What happened?" he looks back and forth between them in confusion, taking in the sheer relief in their eyes. He almost asks _'Where am I?'_, but that would be stupid—he knows where he is. He's in S.T.A.R. Labs. He works here, and these are his colleagues. His friends.

He briefly wonders why he couldn't remember this in the first place, and why a nagging voice in his mind keeps insisting that he's CSI. That's ridiculous. He's a researcher, not a Crime Scene Investigator. He's known that this was what he wanted to do with his life since he was eleven.

Caitlin and Cisco exchange a worried look, and Caitlin bites her lip in concern.

"You don't…you don't remember?"

"Remember what?" he balks, completely lost. Whatever it is that he's forgetting, he knows it can't be good if even _Cisco_ looks this upset remembering it. He can count on one hand the number of times he's seen Cisco frown.

"You were struck by lightning, dude. The particle accelerator…there was an explosion, remember? The night we turned it on. Everything went to shit. You were trying to evacuate people in the area, trying to warn who you could when it happened. When you were hit. And you've been in a coma ever since," Cisco finishes miserably.

His memories of the night are messy and disjointed, but he does vaguely recall what Cisco is telling him. It's more the feelings he remembers than anything—the panic, the despair, the fear. Most of all, the disappointment.

He nods, rubbing a shaky hand down his face, taking it all in. And then he freezes.

"_Coma?_ For how long?" he asks, voice wobbly.

"Nine months," Caitlin chimes in, and for the first time he notices how tired she looks, how guarded her eyes are. He hasn't seen her this tense in a long time. "We were really starting to think you would never wake up."

He manages a small smile for both of them, even though he's trying really hard not to freak out.

"Well, I did. You don't have to worry about me anymore."

Cisco squeezes his shoulder and gives him a watery smile before opening his mouth, about to say something else. Barry cuts him off when another thought suddenly occurs to him.

"Where's Ronnie?"

He instantly regrets it, the second the words leave his mouth, because judging by the way Cisco's shoulders sag, the way Caitlin's hand flies to her mouth, and the pain that registers in her expression, he knows he's not in for good news. He knows what they're going to say before they say it, and he steels himself in anticipation. It still doesn't soften the blow.

"Ronnie…didn't make it. He was in the pipeline, trying to shut the accelerator down, and he didn't make it out. He's dead," Cisco chokes out, plowing through the words he knows Caitlin still can't bear to say out loud, throwing a concerned glance her way as he does.

Barry feels his throat closing, feels his heart constrict as his brain struggles to process what he's been told. Like Cisco and Caitlin, Ronnie hadn't just been his colleague—he'd been his friend, too. He was a good man, someone Barry had really respected, and genuinely liked. The four of them had been close, working on the particle accelerator together.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers after a few moments, when he can finally find his voice again, looking towards Caitlin when he says it. Ronnie was her fiancé, the man she loved more than anyone in the world, and he can't even begin to fathom what it must have been like for her, losing him.

Caitlin turns her face away, a tear stealing its way down her cheek.

"It's okay," she says, even though he knows it's not.

Before he can say anything else, she wipes underneath her eyes and moves towards the door.

"I'm going to let Dr. Wells know you're awake. It's really good to have you back, Barry." And just like that, she's gone.

He and Cisco sit in silence for a while, at a loss for words, when the nagging feeling he's had since he woke up peaks.

"Hey, Cisco," he asks quietly, when he can't shake the feeling any longer, "was there a girl who came to visit me while I was…while I was out? Really, um, really pretty, and around our age?"

Cisco raises an eyebrow in question, and seems to regain some of his usual buoyancy when he smirks at him, even if it does seem forced.

"Not that I know of, no. The only woman who came to visit you was your mother," he snickers. "What, do you have some secret girlfriend you never told me about?"

Barry glares at him, a blush creeping its way up his neck, wondering what else he had possibly expected. He still can't help the slight feeling of disappointment that floods through him, though—she had seemed so real.

He shakes his head. "No, no. Nothing like that," he sighs, and then out of nowhere, worry pierces his heart. "Is my mom okay? Did anything happen to her?"

He doesn't miss the concern in Cisco's eyes, and he's surprised at himself—he has no idea where these thoughts are even coming from. But he's got this image of his mother falling to the ground, cold and lifeless and eyes unseeing, that just won't go away.

"Yeah, of course. She and your dad will be thrilled to hear you're up; they've been worried sick. Dude, what's with all these questions? Why would you think something happened to your mom?"

Barry shakes his head, puzzled. "I don't know. It's like I have these memories that aren't really memories, things that I think I must have dreamed about in those nine months—only, they don't feel like dreams. They felt real. And I don't remember much, but I keep getting these random images, you know? Flashes of stuff that happened…or that seemed to happen…when I was out."

Cisco regards him curiously, and Barry knows that he's thinking they should take some tests, see what's going on inside his mind. It's just…for once, Barry doesn't think that science will have an answer for this.

It's then that Caitlin and Dr. Wells come into the room, and insist that they really do need to take some tests—only not the kind that would help him figure out his not-quite-dreams, but tests to examine the remarkable changes his body seems to have undergone, and to figure out what's going on inside his body.

He only manages to stop worrying about the dreams that seem like memories, to drive any thought of them out of his mind, when they discover that he has fucking superpowers.

xXx

Barry loves saving people. He loves helping people, and he loves using his speed for good. At first, he'd been driven to do this by a sense of responsibility, and an even bigger sense of guilt. He'd been determined to save the city from the dangerous metahumans the particle accelerator explosion had created, and help those affected who were not hell-bent on destruction.

Together, he, Cisco, Caitlin, and Wells had been working to clean up the mess that they'd created. All of the people they'd harmed, the consequences they'd caused. He had been desperate to make up for it—still is.

But it's more than that now. Now he doesn't limit himself to only dealing with other metahumans—now he makes it his goal to protect people from whatever he can, whether he's responsible or not. And it feels really, really good.

Which is why when he gets the call from Cisco that there's a hostage situation at some huge benefit event commemorating some of Central City's best, he's there in a heartbeat.

He's gotten good at this, and it doesn't take long to get everyone to safety and stand off against the guy who appears to be the source of all the trouble. Of course, he doesn't realize that the guy has the place rigged with explosives until it's almost too late.

He's about to make a run for it—he's already evacuated everyone from the premise, anyway—when a movement in the periphery of his vision, the swish of a jacket peeking out from behind a desk, catches his eye.

He doesn't even stop to think, doesn't have time, before he scoops up whoever it is and bolts, fire and flames nipping at his heels as the building goes up in smoke.

When he's sure he's out of range of the blast, he puts the person down, and for the first time really looks at them. It's a woman—she's beautiful, and the sight of her jogs something in his memory. He's sure he's never met her before but…somehow she still looks familiar.

He should leave, now that he knows she's safe, he really shouldn't stick around, but something is keeping him there, rooted to the spot.

"Excuse me, miss, why were you hiding in there? Do you realize how dangerous that was?" he asks, voice firm, mostly because whatever something is keeping him here is also prompting him to start a conversation.

Barry is briefly taken aback by the flash of anger in her eyes, and notices for the first time that she looks annoyed.

"Well, I'm a reporter, and I _was_ getting a really good scoop. Until I dropped my recorder when you grabbed me and ran," she says accusingly, and adds, "I'm also one of Central City's best—I was_invited_ to be there. I didn't just show up."

"Would you rather have been left in that building when it blew up?" Barry splutters incredulously.

She glares at him stubbornly, refusing to budge. He frowns, and the real reason behind her frustration dawns on him.

"And I wasn't insinuating that you weren't supposed to be there. I wasn't—I mean, I'm sorry."

Her eyes soften and she gives him a radiant smile, one that feels achingly familiar.

"Okay, okay. You got me. I guess dying for my job wouldn't have been such a great option, after all. But at least now no one can say I'm not dedicated to what I do. Thanks, though," she grins sheepishly, extending a hand towards him.

He accepts her outstretched hand, and marvels at how perfectly it fits in his. How familiar her touch feels. How everything about her is familiar, familiar, familiar.

He sees something change in her expression, sees the spark of curiosity in her eyes, and he knows that she feels it too.

"Have we met before?" she asks, narrowing her eyes at him and tilting her head in thought.

"Umm," is all he can think to say.

"Right, sorry, stupid question. I don't think I'd forget if I'd met a guy wearing a head-to-toe red leather suit before. With super speed."

"Yeah, I guess you're right," he laughs, unsure of himself, because it's not actually a stupid question at all. He feels like he knows her from somewhere, too, although she doesn't seem like the kind of person who he could have possibly forgotten.

She's still looking at him curiously, trying to see under his mask.

"Well, I'm Iris, anyway. Iris West," she says confidently, squaring her shoulders. As a reporter, she must do this a lot, always having to introduce herself to her interviewees, and Barry gets the impression that the formality has become something of a habit.

_Iris._The name sticks in his mind, and something compels him to say it out loud. It feels natural and right and fitting, rolling easily off of his tongue. And as he takes in her smile again, so warm and bright, something suddenly clicks.

"You're the girl from my dream!" he bursts out, unable to contain his excitement.

He _has_ seen her before, and of course he recognizes her—she was with him every day for those nine months, even if it wasn't physically.

It doesn't register that he must sound incredibly foolish, that she couldn't possibly know what he's talking about, until a few seconds of tense silence pass by between them. He looks at her, blushing, and expects to see confusion, annoyance, judgment, maybe even anger there.

He doesn't expect the familiarity, the shock, and the warmth that registers in her eyes.

"You were in mine, too," she says slowly, in awe, "I remember you. We've never met, but I remember you."

She takes a tentative step closer to him, and moves to push back the hood of his suit. He should push her away, he should protect his identity, he really shouldn't let her see his face. He doesn't know why, but he doesn't.

She looks at him without his mask, observing his face, studying every feature. He watches, mesmerized, as a crease appears on her forehead, as her eyes meet his and she breathes out one word, one that's impossible for her to know, one that somehow she does anyway.

_"Barry."_


	3. Of Stray Puppies and Superheroes

_**Prompt: AU where Iris works at a pet shelter and every time Barry comes in he somehow ends up with another animal. (Although I misread this prompt and took it as "every time Barry comes in he somehow ends up dropping off another animal")**_

**xXx**

Iris is working late the first time it happens. It's up to her to close everything up at the end of the day, seeing as she owns the place, but she doesn't mind—she's really good with the animals, and she loves her job almost as much as she loves being her own boss.

It's eerie, though, when after everyone has left, there's a knock on the door instead of the normal chime alerting her that someone has entered the building. People don't knock here, or wait to be let in—they're supposed to just walk in and out as they please.

It's even more eerie when she opens the door and there's no one there.

"Hello…?" she calls out cautiously, craning her neck to look out the doorway and sweeping her gaze left and right.

She's about to give up looking, to close the door and write the noise off as having been a figment of her imagination, when a small bark draws her attention downward.

"Hey, little guy," she croons, picking up the puppy that's been left on the doorstep.

The dog is thin and sickly-looking, its fur is mangled and matted, and it's obvious that it's been abandoned and living on its own for quite a while.

"Let's get you inside and all cleaned up," she says, ruffling its fur, wondering who on Earth could have left it there. She's pretty sure it didn't just appear out of thin air, and in its current state it certainly couldn't have gotten here itself. Plus, it also just so happens that dogs don't knock.

She surveys the area once more, looking for the mysterious dog-dropper, until the puppy in her arms starts to whimper and squirm uncomfortably, forcing her to give up her search. She's got more important things to attend to at the moment, she thinks to herself, closing the door behind her.

A few days go by without incident, and she almost forgets about it. Almost.

But then it happens again, only this time it's a sad-looking little kitten waiting for her out on the doorstep, and there's a little sticky note—_'Please help her!'—_on the floor next to it. And still, no one there.

She shuts the door with more force than necessary, frustrated, thinking that this can't possibly happen again.

But it does, and then it keeps happening, from dogs to cats to everything in between, all looking in desperate need of a home and all without a person there to speak for them. The only evidence that she has that a person even _is_ behind them being there in the first place is the occasional note, and the fact that animals generally don't know to haul themselves over to the local shelter if they need a place to stay.

Finally, after a few weeks go by and she's starting to think she might need to invest in more cages, or maybe even expand the shelter on the whole to accommodate the recent influx of animals, she catches the culprit.

Well, she doesn't exactly catch him—it's more like he lets himself be caught.

It's pouring out, and she's dreading having to venture outside, to make the whopping ten-foot trek to her car in the driveway in this rain, when she hears the familiar knock on the door.

She sighs, slightly annoyed but also slightly excited (she's gotten used to this routine, and it feels good to know that someone is looking out for the strays and rejects of Central City, making sure they're somewhere that they'll be taken care of) and makes her way towards it, wondering what kind of animal it'll be this time.

She's almost has a heart attack when she opens the door and it's a guy that's standing there in front of her, a small, scared-looking puppy nestled in his arms.

"You!" she shouts, jabbing an accusing finger at him, because no one comes to the shelter this late, and she's sure that this must be the person she's been looking for.

The guy blinks at her. He's drenched, dripping wet from the rain, but somehow the dog is completely dry. Iris notices that he's got his jacket wrapped around it, and she can't help the pang of affection she feels at the sight.

"Um. What?"

She grabs his elbow, steering him inside and towards the back room. He looks so sweet and innocent, and the puppy-dog eyes he's giving her could give the actual puppy in his arms a run for its money, that she almost considers dropping the matter. Almost, but not quite. He's not fooling her, and she's not giving in that easily.

"Don't play dumb with me. You're the one that's been dropping all these animals here and then disappearing! It's getting pretty packed in here because of you."

"Oh, yeah," he says, rubbing the back of his neck, "that. Well, better here then out on the street, right? I feel so bad when I see them—I can't just leave them there to die."

Iris nods appreciatively, before remembering the reason for her frustration over this mystery-man in the first place.

"Okay, I'm not disagreeing with you, but why do you just drop them off and leave? Why not come in and give them to me in person? Like you're doing right now, actually."

"I'm usually in a hurry," he smiles cryptically, as if indulging himself in some inside joke, "but it's raining out tonight, and it's cold, and I couldn't just leave him outside alone," he adds, gesturing helplessly to the puppy he's just placed on the counter. She feels herself melt a little at his thoughtfulness.

"Alright, fine. I'll let you slide," she huffs, scratching the puppy behind its ear, "but only because you've come bearing a puppy. My one weakness."

He grins at her, his smile warm and bright and incredibly adorable, and she's vaguely aware of the raindrops still clinging to his impossibly long eyelashes. Maybe puppies aren't her only weakness, after all.

"On one condition, though. Next time you rescue some poor animal off the street, don't just knock and then leave. You have to come inside with them from now on. Deal?"

"Deal," he says, grinning even wider and shaking her outstretched hand. "I'm Barry, by the way."

"Iris," she responds, smiling.

xXx

Barry keeps his word, and soon enough he's stopping by almost daily, sometimes to drop off another abandoned pet or malnourished stray, and sometimes just to check up on the one's he's already given her, see if any have been adopted and given a home yet, and chat for a while. She would never admit it, but it's easily become one of the best parts of her day—she always looks forward to his visits.

She also quickly becomes suspicious of how exactly he manages to rescue so many animals in such a short period of time, especially when she's sure he's got to have a job and a life of his own.

"How do you find all of these animals, anyway?" she asks one day, curiosity getting the better of her. "Honestly, it's like you patrol the city for them or something."

Barry's laugh sounds oddly forced.

"Um, no, I don't patrol the city for them. I mean, I don't patrol the city at all, that'd be…that'd be unrealistic."

"Okay…" Iris replies, unconvinced, and it becomes a thing—her asking questions, him evading them. Still, even when she suspects he's keeping something from her, she really likes having him around.

xXx

He bursts in one day, looking frantic and ashen-faced, something large and unmoving in his arms, and she immediately senses that something isn't right.

"Barry? What's wrong?"

She puts a calming hand on his arm, and he lays the dog he's been carrying down.

He looks at her, pleading, struggling for words.

"Please, Iris, is there anything you can do? I was…I think I might have been to late, and I don't think she's breathing…" he chokes out, on the verge of tears.

It only takes one glance for Iris to confirm Barry's fears—she's not an expert, but it's obvious that the dog is long gone.

"Barry…I'm not a vet. And even if I was, there's nothing I can do for her. She's…she's already dead."

Barry covers his mouth and nods, like he already knew but didn't want to believe it, and Iris feels her heart break as he starts to cry.

It takes her a second before she realizes why her throat feels like it's closing up, to realize that she's crying, too.

"How did it happen?" she asks, wiping her eyes.

"There was a fire. I think it must have been all the smoke. There was so much of it," Barry sniffs, a faraway look in his eye as he says it, remembering. Even through her grief Iris can't contain her disbelief.

"You went into a burning building to save a dog?" she asks incredulously.

Barry's eyes go wide and he shakes his head, backpedaling.

"No, no, I saw it…I saw the fire. I got—I mean, everyone else got out okay, but I couldn't—they couldn't get the dog out in time. I found her… after, on the side of the road, and I didn't know where else to take her. But I guess…I guess I was too slow."

Iris's suspicion peaks at his fumbled explanation, and she takes notice of the burn mark on his cheek, and the soot coating his clothes. She remembers overhearing her employees talking about something on the news before they'd left, about a family being rescued by a fire by a mysterious red blur.

Normally she would question him about it, but Barry looks so unbelievably miserable that she just doesn't have the heart to push him for answers right now.

Instead, she steps forward and wraps her arms around him, hugging him tight.

"Hey, it's not your fault. You did everything you could," she says softly, hoping to console him. She hates seeing him this upset.

At first, Barry freezes at her touch, and Iris worries that she might have crossed a line. After a few tense moments, however, just as she's about to let him go, he wraps his arms around her and hugs her back. He smells like smoke, and Iris's suspicions are all but confirmed, but she tries not to think about it, tries to just let it go and appreciate his warmth.

She rubs soothing circles around his back, and lets him cry.

"Hey, listen, I'm about to close up anyway—why don't you come hang at my place for a little bit? I'm ordering take-out tonight and binge-watching crappy reality TV shows, and we could both use the company. Plus it might help take your mind off things."

She feels him nod against her shoulder, and when he pulls away from their hug, he gives her a watery smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'd like that."


	4. Impossible Things

_**Prompt: Cop/person getting a speeding ticket au (with cop!Iris)**_

**xXx**

"Shit. Shit, shit, shit," Barry groans when he sees the red-and-blue lights reflected in his rear-view mirror. It's not as though he's never been pulled over before—this certainly isn't the first time he's been in a rush. But he really, really can't be late today. Not when he's supposed to be giving some big lecture about his most recent scientific breakthrough at Central City University.

This is huge for him. This is the beginning of his foray into the vanguard of the new and upcoming scientific community. This is his chance to really start to solidify the name he's made for himself as, in the proud words of his father, one of the best and brightest young minds of this generation. And he's going to be _late_.

He pulls over and smacks his head on the steering wheel, defeated, as the cop car pulls up behind him. He doesn't bother looking up when he hears the slam of a door, not when he hears the footsteps approaching his car, calmly spelling out his death sentence, not until he hears the sharp knock on his window.

He rolls down the window, and when the officer asks for his license and registration, he prepares for the inevitable, head in his hands. Still, he has to try.

"Please, officer," he says, passing her the requested items while keeping his gaze resolutely fixed downward, "I know I was speeding but my car wouldn't start this morning and then I got stuck in traffic and I've got somewhere I really need to be and I'm going to be late—"

"—for a very important date?" the officer replies, and Barry finally finds the strength to lift his head and look her in the eyes.

She's pretty—_really_ pretty. Her eyes are serious, and her stance is all-business, and yet she's grinning at him with a smile that suddenly has him questioning everything he knows, because that smile can't be real. No way, not a chance—there's no possible explanation for something so beautiful, and as a scientist, he only deals in hard facts and reasoning, in testable theories and tangible results.

But there's no other way to describe it—it's impossible.

He doesn't realize he's completely zoned out until he hears her disappointed grunt.

"Oh, come on, nothing? You didn't get that reference? Well, I thought it was funny," she huffs, taking a pen and a pad of paper out of her pocket. "And why are you staring at me like that?" she adds, eyeing him suspiciously as she scribbles something down on the pad.

Barry shakes his head frantically, his jumbled thoughts making him tongue-tied for a few agonizingly long, embarrassing seconds before he can finally get a hold of himself long enough to respond.

"No, no, I get it! Ha, ha…good one. And I'm sorry if you thought I was staring, you just look really ni—wow, never mind, pretend I didn't just say that. I was just—I'm just really stressed and…and I didn't mean to…I'm just supposed to be somewhere real soon, it's really important, and I—"

The officer holds up a hand to cut him off, laughing.

"Woah, slow down there, buddy. It's okay, I get it—but speaking of slowing down," she says, voice suddenly serious again, as she tears off the little piece off paper from the pad she's been writing on, "I'm afraid you were going way over the speed limit—70 in a 40 miles per hour zone. I know that there's not a lot of people on this road, but still. I'm going to have to give you a ticket."

Barry groans and slumps back in the car seat, but he takes the ticket and doesn't argue.

"You know…" the officer hums thoughtfully, and her voice makes him freeze just as he's about to roll the window back up and hope that he can somehow make it to his destination on time by sheer force of will. And a lot of praying.

"…maybe I'll let you off the hook, you know, let you pay that ticket it off by buying me a cup off coffee sometime, instead."

"Really?" he croaks, voice hoarse with disbelief, because he's pretty sure she might be hitting on him, and this kind of stuff _never_ happens to him.

Her eyes are twinkling mischievously when she's responds.

"Nah, I'm just messing with you. I'm afraid I can't give you any special treatment, even if you are cute."

He gapes at her, unsure of what to say, so she tilts her head and taps her chin, considering, and plows on.

"Although I wouldn't mind doing the whole coffee thing with you sometime, anyway," she adds and winks at him before turning away, making her way back to the cop car.

He knows his mouth is hanging open in shock, and his finger is still frozen on the button to roll up the window, and suddenly it's like he can't think straight. He sits there for a few moments, mind reeling, watching her leave.

"Don't you have somewhere really important to be?" she calls out, looking over her shoulder, catching him staring again and throwing him another one of those impossible smiles.

"Oh, right. Shit," he curses, like he's just received some unpleasant wake-up call. He puts the car back in drive and sticks a hand out the window to wave goodbye, feeling slightly ridiculous—until catches sight of her waving back.

Just as he's about to put the ticket down on the seat next to him, he glimpses of a small piece of paper attached to it. He can vaguely make out the name _'Iris'_ and a string of numbers that looks suspiciously like a phone number written beneath it, and his heart speeds up against his will.

He stares at it intently before he gets moving, memorizing her handwriting, and when he finally drives away it's with the feeling that maybe being late wasn't such a bad thing, after all—at least not this time.

Miraculously, though, he makes it to the lecture on time. He remember's the officer—_Iris_—and figures it wouldn't be the first impossible thing to happen to him today.


	5. I Wanna Hold Your Hand

_**Prompt: Strangers meeting on a plane AU**_

**xXx**

"Dude, you know we haven't even left the ground yet, right?"

Iris leans forward in her seat to get a better look at the guy sitting next to her, staring out the little airplane window and wringing his hands together so tightly she's sure it must be painful. His face is mostly turned away from her but she can just make out that he's chewing on his bottom lip, and he's got a leg propped up on one of his knees, nervously bouncing it up and down.

Just looking at him is making her anxious.

He tears his gaze away from the window and turns to face her, his eyes full of panic.

"I know. But we will be. It's just—I really don't like flying," he groans, sinking lower into his seat and throwing his head back against the headrest. He squeezes his eyes shut, gets this real pained look on his face like he's trying to pretend he's anywhere else, and quite frankly looks like he's about to be sick.

Iris frowns at him, wishing she had something to offer to soothe his nerves. She hums thoughtfully, wracking her brain for another solution, because if she lets him keep on doing what he's doing, she's afraid he just might break his fingers.

A flight attendant walks past their aisle, pushing a cart full of snacks and taking requests for beverages before the long flight. She smiles warmly at Iris, handing her a small travel pack of trail mix as she asks her if she'd like anything to drink.

"No thanks, I think I'm good," Iris responds, flashing her a charming smile. She glances over to the guy next to her, slouching in his chair with his eyes still tightly shut, and realizes just as the flight attendant is about to move on that she must think that he's sleeping.

"On second thought, could I get a cup of coffee for my friend over here?" she asks sweetly, gesturing to the guy, and the woman nods at her before moving to the next aisle.

The guy's eyes snap open and he stares at her in confusion, wondering why she's being so nice.

"I got you a coffee," she says brightly, grinning at him. She's vaguely aware that caffeine is probably not the best solution to ease his nervous ticks, but she's hoping that the warmth will at least provide him with some level of comfort. It's always worked for her—she figures it can't hurt for him to try it.

"Uh, yeah, I heard. Thanks," he smiles at her, a little shaky and uncertain, but she can see the gratitude in his eyes. She's proud of herself for cheering him up, even if only a little bit. And if that's not his full-out smile, she kind of really wants to see what is because _wow_—it's pretty damn adorable.

"I'm Iris, by the way. Iris West," she introduces herself, figuring that if she's likely going to be consoling him for most of this plane ride she should at least know his name.

"Nice to meet you, Iris," he replies, still with that nervous smile, but he sounds genuinely sincere. "I'm Barry. Uh, Allen. Barry Allen. Listen, sorry about…this," he makes a vague gesture to himself, and Iris assumes he's referring to his very obvious unease. "I really don't mean to bother you."

Iris waves him off with another smile.

"It's okay, really—nothing to be embarrassed about. Everyone's afraid of something."

Barry nods at her, looking immensely grateful at her understanding. A few moments of comfortable silence pass between them before the flight attendant brings him his coffee, and Iris instructs him to pay special attention to the heat, to focus on breathing in and out when the cup is against his lips and he can feel the warmth from the steam on his face.

He's so focused on his breathing and on following Iris's instructions that he must not really hear the announcement that they're ready for take off, listing off the usual safety reminders. It's a good thing that his cup is empty by the time the plane lurches into motion and starts to make it's way down the runway, because he promptly drops it in his lap.

Whatever calm he'd managed in the few minutes of respite that Iris's helpful little trick had given him instantly melts away, and his eyes go wide with terror, his body rigid with fear.

As the plane finally lifts off from the ground, his hand shoots out, panicking, desperate to anchor himself to something. Iris thinks he must mean to grab the hand-rest, but his gaze is so focused on what's straight ahead of him that he doesn't even notice when he ends up gripping her arm instead, holding on for dear life.

"Um…" she begins awkwardly, using the arm that's not currently trapped in his death grip to wave in front of his face and capture his attention. He blinks a few times before looking over at her, and she motions to their current predicament.

He pulls his hand away like he's been burned, flailing his arms wildly and tripping over his words, fumbling an apology.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to…I didn't know—I'm sorry, I—"

"Hey, it's okay, relax," Iris laughs, not unkindly, trying to put him at ease. "I know you didn't mean to."

He nods, but his face has gone from pale with fear to red with embarrassment. Almost immediately he's gone back to that painful hand-wringing again, averting his gaze from her to the window, trying and failing to distract himself.

It's painful to watch, and Iris can't help herself as she reaches out to rest a hand over his. His gaze travels from the window, to their hands, to her face. He looks startled and confused, completely taken off guard, and yet without really even realizing it he seems to relax a little at her touch.

She pulls his tightly-locked hands apart and keeps her grip on the one closest to her, guiding it to the arm-rest between them and letting it sit there, underneath her own. She squeezes it tight and gives him what she hopes is a reassuring smile, one that after a few seconds of stunned silence he returns in full measure.

Even from Barry's perspective, it's not such a bad flight, after all.


	6. Drift Compatible

_**Prompt: Pacific Rim AU**_

**xXx**

He's known he wanted to fight kaijus since he was eleven, when they destroyed his home and he'd been forced to watch as his parents were killed right in front of him.

He doesn't know what he would've done, or where he would be today—hell, if he'd even be _alive _today—, if it hadn't been for Joe West. The man who had saved him from the very threat that had killed his parents, and had taken him in when he'd had nowhere else to go, raised him alongside his daughter, Iris.

_Iris._

His best friend, his partner in crime, his co-pilot…and his long-time crush. The girl he's loved nearly all his life.

They'd trained together in secret, when Joe had made it vehemently clear that he wouldn't allow them to join the PPDC. As with everything else, they'd sworn they would go through with this together, that they'd embark on the process of becoming Jaeger pilots side-by-side.

The first time they'd sparred, it had been clear that they'd possessed a special rhythm all their own. They were constantly in sync, they mirrored each other's movements perfectly , and even though Iris managed to get the best of him more than once, they just _worked _together.

'_We're totally drift compatible, Bar,'_ Iris had panted, out of breath. Her grin had been wide and her eyes had been dancing with excitement as she'd straddled him—knocked him to the ground only after he'd managed to disarm her.

She'd been so, _so_ close, and it had been really hard to keep his voice even. Almost impossible to remain calm as he'd forced a laugh and responded, _'Well, duh.'_

They'd fought tooth and nail to get where they are now, to finally convince Joe that there was nothing he could do to stop them, no matter how much he warned them how dangerous it was. They were twenty-five now. They made their own decisions.

So right now, Barry is thrilled, eager, determined… and ridiculously nervous. Because he's currently standing next to Iris in their Jaeger (which Iris had happily dubbed the _The Flash_ as a homage to their mutual quick reflexes), and after all their extensive training, they're about to go into the field for the first time. They put on their gear, connect to their machine, and then put on the helmets that will connect them to each other.

Unfortunately for him, he remembers a second too late that they'll be sharing memories. That Iris will be given a window right into his mind, to his most private thoughts and feelings.

And of course, as soon as he remembers this, he starts remembering everything he precisely _doesn't_want Iris to see.

He squeezes his eyes shut and wills the images away, but they come anyway. Of course they do.

His parents, being ripped apart in front of his eyes. His home being destroyed as he'd stood by and watched, helpless. His feelings of hopelessness, of absolute, utter terror and despair before Joe had saved his life. And his love for her. Every single little fucking thing he feels when he sees her smile, when she laughs, when she does just about anything. This unavoidable, unshakable, damning love of his.

"Barry…" Iris's voice forces his eyes open, and from the way she's looking at him, he knows that she knows. That she's just seen everything he'd been seeing.

Barry shakes his head, not at all prepared to have this conversation. Not right now, just as they're about to take this Jaeger out into the heat of the action for the first time.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Iris asks, and Barry tells himself he's imagining the way her voice breaks.

"I—I wanted to. But I couldn't. I knew it would make things awkward. It'll throw everything we've worked so hard for off, you know? Because you don't…I was I was afraid you wouldn't—"

"It won't throw us off, Bar. It won't mess up our rhythm," Iris looks at him through the little window of her helmet, her tone firm, her eyes sincere.

"How can you say that? You know that this changes things between us. I've made it weird, I've messed everything up—how can you just go on pretending like nothing is different? How are you not thrown off by this?" he groans, desperate for her to understand.

Because they can't be drift compatible, can't fight kaijus together, can't possibly make this work if they'll be so awkward they won't even be able to look each other in the eye. At least not yet. She'll probably want distance from him, time to work things out, to move past it. And he'll need time to move on from his unrequited feelings, as he's known he always would. They'll be okay, but with time.

He's expecting her to give him a pitying look, to agree, to see the flaw in her logic. He's expecting a lot of things, but he's definitely not expecting her to roll her eyes. Or to smile.

"_Because_, you idiot," she says slowly, deliberately, as though she's explaining something incredibly obvious to a very small child, "did you ever stop to consider that maybe I love you, too?"


	7. Be My Valentine

_**Prompt: "It would have been a lot more romantic if you had de-thorned the rose**__** before **__**you put it in your mouth."**_

**xXx**

"Barry, you really need to relax. Iris is your best friend—I don't know what's got you so stressed about this. You've probably embarrassed yourself in front of her plenty of times before. If tonight goes horribly wrong, I'm sure she'll still love you."

Barry is in S.T.A.R. Labs, pacing back and forth, wringing his hands together and forcibly chewing on his lip. Caitlin wants to tell him to stop before he rips the skin off, more-so for Iris's benefit than anything, but she doesn't think he'll listen.

"Yeah, but that's not the _point_, Caitlin. This is my first Valentine's Day with Iris as my best friend _and_my girlfriend. I just—I want it to be special. And I kind of want her to be impressed, too."

Caitlin rolls her eyes.

"You'll be _fine_. Besides, if you really want it to be good, don't you think you should be home getting ready, rather than here putting it off because you're afraid?"

Barry opens his mouth to respond, but just then Cisco barges into the room, toting a bag full of something that smells sweet in his hand.

"Alright, Cait, I've got the lube and strawberries—we're all set!" he says by way of announcing his presence, and it's only after he notices Caitlin's horrified expression that he realizes Barry is still in the room, too.

"Oh, Barry, hey—you're, um, you're here late. I thought, uh, I thought you already left…" he laughs, trying to pass it off as casual, but he looks like he wants to crawl in a hole and never come out.

Barry backs away from Caitlin and Cisco slowly, gaze flickering back and forth between the two of them.

"I, uh, yeah, I was just—I was just leaving. You guys, um. You guys have fun with that," he coughs uncomfortably, and then he's gone in a burst of speed before either of them can say another word.

And then he's left with no other choice but to put his nervousness aside and start putting his plans for the night into effect.

He stops at his apartment to shower, change, and grab the bouquet of roses he'd bought for Iris earlier before heading over to her work to pick her up. When he walks into the building she's sitting at her desk, deeply absorbed whatever she's doing, and she doesn't notice him come in.

As he makes his way over to her he tries to channel the smoothness and confidence of all the male leads in every romantic movie he can think of, and suddenly a brilliant idea pops into his head. He grins excitedly. He's going to look _so_ _cool—_Iris will be breathless.

He leans against her desk and pulls one of the roses out of the bouquet, sticking in his mouth, holding the stem between his teeth. He's just about to say something really suave to get her attention, like _'Fancy meeting you here, Miss West'_, but suddenly there's something painful poking at his tongue and cutting into his lips.

He spits the rose out just as Iris looks up from her work, and when he touches a finger to his lip it comes away bloody.

"Owww," he whines, and Iris shakes her head at him.

She's very clearly trying not to laugh as she takes the bouquet from him and rests a hand on his chest, doing her best to appear sympathetic.

"You know, it would have been a lot more romantic if you had de-thorned the rose_ before _you put it in your mouth," she sighs, before standing on her tippy-toes to kiss away the cuts on his lips.

He's not sure if it's just his super-healing at work or if it's just her touch, but the pain instantly ebbs and he feels a happy, cooling sort of relief settle over him.

"And you know," Iris says without pulling away, and he feels her lips curl into smile against his own, "It's a good thingyou heal fast, Barr. I'm going to need you to put that mouth to good use later."

Barry can't even formulate a proper response. It's like his mind is suddenly short circuiting, and Iris can obviously feel the way his heartbeat speeds up against her fingertips, because she smirks at him and presses on.

"You can do that _amazing_ thing you do with your tongue—I'd hate for that to go to waste."

Barry is seriously starting to wonder whether they even have to go out to dinner after all, or if they could just head back to his apartment and skip right to the 'later' part…but then he remembers how much he'd pestered Oliver about using his connections to get them a reservation at a _really_ nice place that he probably never could've hoped to step foot in otherwise, and he decides against it. He'd probably end up with another arrow in his back if he just decided not to show up.

"Dinner first?" he chokes out, his voice about three octaves too high.

Iris pats him on the cheek and laughs affectionately. That's her Barry, alright.

"Dinner first," she agrees, and then she gives him a not-so-subtle wink. "We'll save the fun stuff for later."


	8. Come Home

_**Prompt: "Come home with me."**_

**xXx**

Sometimes, Barry thinks about what Caitlin had said to him about Iris, the day they'd first met, the day he'd woken up from his coma.

_She talks __**a lot.**_

He knows this, of course—Iris has always had a bubbly personality. But he often wonders about what exactly she could have been talking about in those nine months that he missed out on her company.

He can't bring himself to ask her—he doesn't think it would be fair. And he doesn't think she wants to relive the experience any more than he does, but still. He's curious.

Sometimes, Iris remembers it with vivid clarity. Most of the time she tries to block it out, tries her best to pretend that those nine months never happened, but there are certain occasions where she can't seem to stop the onslaught of memories, certain times where she'll remember every word she spoke to him that he never heard.

And it's really fucking painful.

_"I went to the movies the other night, Barr. Sunday. __**Our **__movie night. It was some obscure new sci-fi movie, I think it was called…God, I can't even remember the name, isn't that sad? I was too busy thinking about you. Too busy thinking about how it was one that I remember you'd said that you were so excited for. Before…before all this. I really wish you'd been there. It wasn't the same without your commentary."_

_"Talk to me, Barry. It's so lonely without you. I miss your voice. I miss your excited rambling about science experiments and useless trivia you know I don't actually care about. I miss the way your eyes light up when you're excited or happy or proud, and I really miss your smile. I miss your hugs. I miss __**you**__, Barry. God, I miss you so much."_

_"Look at me, Barry. Open your eyes. I want you to see that I'm here. I want you to know that I'm never going to leave. But it's so hard when you won't just…when you can't fucking see me. When you can't hear me. When you can't feel my touch. Barry, I'm trying, I'm really trying, but It's so fucking hard."_

"_**Listen **__to me, Barry. You have to wake up, okay? You __**have **__to. This isn't funny. I need you to wake up. I can't—I need you here with me. I don't know how much longer I can do this."_

"_Come home with me tonight, Barry, please,"_ she'd pleaded once, running her fingers through his hair. It had been months, and she still hadn't gotten used to the complete lack of response—she was so accustomed to him leaning into her touch.

_"Dad's making his signature lasagna—your favorite. He's been doing that a lot, recently. Making all your favorite foods. And he sets a place for you at the dinner table every night even though you're not there, like he used to do when you first moved into your new apartment. I think he's still hoping one day you'll just walk right in and sit down with us, and he wants everything to be perfect when you do again."_

She hadn't mentioned that she'd been very much hoping this too. That she couldn't decide what she hated herself more for—refusing to give up hope when it seemed more likely with each passing day that her hope was in vain, putting all her faith in an impossible possibility, or the fact that she could feel a tiny sliver of that hope curl up and die inside her each time she would visit him and he wouldn't wake up.

_"Come home, Barry. Come home to me."_


	9. I Know You

_**Prompt: Eyes**_

**xXx**

In the end, it's his eyes that give him away.

Iris knows those eyes. She's seen them happy and sad and angry, playful and mischievous and scared.

She's seen them lit up with excitement, she's seen them clouded with boredom, she's seen them hooded with sadness, she's seen them heavy with exhaustion. She knows how they look with tears spilling over.

She's seen them bloodshot and sleepy after being woken up at seven in the morning for school, and she's seen how they look when suddenly shrouded in light after spending hours and hours sitting in the dark with her, marathoning the Lord of the Rings trilogy, strained and pupils dilated but so full of delight.

She's seen laughter in them and she's seen love, she's seen them tender and open, and once upon a time, when they were kids and he lost everything, she'd seen them hard and guarded.

She's seen them from far away and she's seen them up close, and she's stared into them time and time again (her record is three minutes and fifteen seconds, she remembers, from one of their many impromptu staring contests in fifth grade).

She's looked into them, searching, always to find that unconditional love and support and admiration reflected back at her, those raw emotions she's never quite seen in exactly the same way anywhere else.

She's seen them in just about every way. She's known them nearly all her life.

So when The Flash scoops her up and out of the line of danger, when he's speeding away with her in his arms and the wind is whipping against her face and all the air feels like it's left her lungs, when she catches a glimpse of his face in the few seconds that he forgets to blur it and her gaze is drawn to those familiarly long eyelashes and for half-a-second that feels more like a lifetime her eyes lock with his, she knows.

She sees guilt, and worry, and determination, and anger, and fear, and so, so much love—she sees what's familiar. She sees _Barry_.


	10. Family Man

_**Prompt: "You can't protect me."**_

**xXx**

"It's too late, Iris. You can't protect me," Barry says mournfully, voice grave, expression serious.

"Barry, please don't do this," she pleads, hanging on to his arm, trying to force him to a stop.

Suddenly there's an added pressure on his legs, and he looks down to see the twins hanging on to either one, hugging him tight.

"Don't do it, daddy!" they chant in unison, and Iris nods at him, giving him a somber look.

He shakes his head again, heaving a dramatic sigh, and presses the back of his hand to his forehead.

"I've got no choice. Tell my family I love them!"

Iris rolls her eyes at him.

"Barry, we _are _your family," she laughs, and Barry holds up a finger to shush her.

"Iris, you are ruining the atmosphere we've created here! And you are vastly underestimating the seriousness of this situation."

He hears a giggle come from down below and notices Dawn stifling her laughter behind a pudgy little hand.

"And you too, little lady! I swear, Iris, look what you've started. This could be a life or death situation, and you're _laughing_."

"Okay, okay, we get it. We're all serious here," she says, schooling her features, and he nods approvingly, freeing himself from Iris's grasp and extracting his legs from Don and Dawn's clutches.

He gives them a mock salute, and plunges in to the huge mass of people around them, immediately losing sight of them in the crowd.

"Is Daddy really gonna die?" Don sniffles tearfully, and Iris lifts him into her arms, rubbing his back consolingly.

"Awww, baby, no. He's just going to find a place to eat for us while we wait here. There's just a lot of people to go through—Disney is a scary place in the summer."

"Oh," Don hiccups, and Dawn tugs at Iris's dress.

"Mommy, can we go see the princesses while we wait?" she asks, eyes wide and excited.

"Not yet, sweetie. Let's wait till you're dad comes back. He'll be disappointed if he finds out we went to see them without him."

It's not until fifteen minutes later that Barry emerges from the crowd, looking completely disheveled, and scoops the twins into his arms.

"I have returned from war!" he announces triumphantly, giving Iris a quick peck on lips, "and I found the perfect place to eat."

"But daaaaaaddy," Dawn whines, "I wanna see the princesses first!"

Barry pinches her cheek and laughs, shooting Iris a wink.

"Well, you're in luck sweetheart, because we're eating at Cinderella's castle. _With_ the princesses."

The kids squeal and clap their hands excitedly, and Iris gives him a thumbs up, mouthing the word _'Nice'._

"Well, you owe me," he says, placing the kids back down on the ground and slipping an arm around her waist, "I _did_ risk my life for this."

She leans her head against his shoulder and sighs happily, never getting tired of this.

"Barry, you are _such_ a dork."


	11. What Do You Want?

_**Prompt: "I just want this"**_

**xXx**

Iris West has always been go-getter. Even when she doesn't have a clear idea what the future has in store for her, she's always known what she wants out of it, just like she knows what she expects from other people, from her life, and from herself. She's always been firm about the things she wants, and she's never been afraid to go after them. More often than not, she succeeds.

So what the_ fuck _happened there?

That, she thinks, is a really good question.

What _do _you want? What do _you_ want? What do you _want_?

She mulls the question over in her mind a million different ways, but no matter how she changes the emphasis or how she imagines it differently, her answer doesn't change. Or rather, her lack of an answer.

Because for once, she just doesn't fucking know.

It's all Barry's goddamn fault, making her life so difficult, coming to her and pouring out his heart and confessing his love and awaking this doubt inside her and then telling her that no, he doesn't have those feelings for her anymore. Making this big muddled mess of her heart.

Because then she'll still catch him looking at her sometimes, with the same longing look she's starting to wear more and more often, and it's rapidly snowballing into one huge mass of confusion, so much so that it's honestly making her head hurt. Not to mention her heart.

_'Right now, it kind of feels like you don't want to be with me, but you don't want anyone else to be with me either…'_

And Christ, isn't that the fucking truth?

At least part of it has to be, because she can't help but remember the bitter taste in her mouth at seeing him kiss someone else, and the way her stomach curls at the thought of them together, at the massive guilt in her chest whenever she talks to Linda—because she does genuinely like the girl and she _does_ want Barry to be happy, of course she does, but at the same time she can't help the jealousy slowly brewing inside of her.

And it's jealousy at what, exactly? At the thought of someone making him happier than she can? At the fact that maybe she wants to be the one he's kissing, holding close, showing up at work to take out to dinner after all?

But then there's still that huge gaping pit of uncertainty as to whether or not that's really a road she wants to go down in the first place, whether it's just her mind playing tricks on her or whether 'unrequited' was just another lie she told herself to make things seem easier.

Because being with Eddie is nice. Being with Eddie is steady. Being with Eddie is easy. Being with Eddie makes her happy.

And yet…she's just not so sure it's what she wants anymore.

The thing is, she's just never thought about Barry this way before now, in any capacity bordering on romantic. She's always been content just to have him by her side, her best friend, her support, her family. In a way, she's always just kind of _had_ him, he's always been a part of her life, so she's never really wanted him in any other sense before.

_Has she?_

She really doesn't want to think about that, either.

It goes on for a little while like that, the jealousy, the longing, the uncertainty, and then one day Linda breaks up with Barry, and she can't tell whether her heart is heavy with joy or with dread.

She can't help her curiosity and she figures that her and Linda are friends, so it's not exactly weird for her to ask. When she does, Linda gives her a sad smile and pats her on the arm and tells her _'he was never really mine anyway, Iris. I think we both know that.'_

And yeah. She knows.

When she breaks up with Eddie, she's doesn't cry like she thinks she will. Doesn't shed a tear, not even a drop—although he does, of course. It breaks her heart, seeing him so broken and knowing that she caused it, because he's a good guy and he's always treated her right and she had—_oh god, is she really already thinking in the past tense?_—genuinely loved him. She feels terrible for it, feels so guilty for hurting him, but more than anything she feels relieved. And that really scares her.

But being in Barry's arms doesn't. His face this close to hers doesn't. So when that's where she ends up, she knows she's getting closer and closer to figuring this all out. She can feel it in the way that he touches her, in the beating of his heart and in the steadily building anticipation in hers.

_What do you want, Iris?_

And as he's kissing her, as he's cradling her face in his hands and she's pressed up against him and there are butterflies in her stomach and a pleasant buzzing in her head and a warmth that reaches all the way down to her toes, she finally has her answer. It comes so easily, so naturally, she wonders how she ever could have had a doubt in the first place. Whether she hasn't really known it all along, after all.

The answer is so simple, so glaringly obvious, it almost makes her laugh.

_I just want this._


	12. Do Your Homework

_**Prompt: Two Roads**_

**xXx**

"'_Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,_

_And sorry I could not travel both_

_And be one traveler, long I stood_

_And looked down one as far as I could_

_To where it bent in the undergrowth…'_

…Barry, are you even listening to me?" Iris sighs as she lifts her gaze from the paper she's reading from and catches a glimpse of his glassy-eyed, hundred-yard stare.

"Huh?" is the brilliant response she receives, and she watches in equal parts amusement and exasperation as he blinks at her in confusion.

She groans and sets the paper down, clasps Barry's shoulders and glares at him until she's sure she has his full attention.

"Barry. Need I remind you that _you_ were the one who came knocking on _my_ door, begging me to proofread your analysis paper for you. The least you could do is pay attention."

She drops a hand from his shoulder to pick up the paper in question again and wave it angrily in front of his face.

Barry has the decency to look at least a little ashamed, but only for a brief moment before he's holding his hands up and shaking his head.

"Okay, yeah, but in my defense, I didn't know you were going to do all…_this_," he says, gesturing wildly to the paper looking sad and flimsy in Iris's clutches, as if to indicate whatever _'this'_ is. "I just meant I wanted you to read it over for like, grammatical errors and whatnot. And make small edits and stuff. I didn't expect you to completely tear it to shreds and insist on making me sit through a freaking_ oral reading_ of the stupid poem. I've had enough of that thing for a lifetime."

Iris scowls at him, rolls the paper up between her fingers and swats him over the head with it before smoothing it out in front of her again.

"Dude. You can't seriously tell me you were planning on turning this in," she says, crinkling her nose at it in distaste. "And don't you question my methods, Barry Allen. I always feel like you get the most out of poetry when you read it out loud. Trust me—judging by what you have so far, you clearly haven't gotten enough."

Barry sticks his tongue out at her, jokingly, although he can't help but feel a little bit offended, even though he knows she's just stating the truth. Normally he admires her brutal honesty, but right now he just wants to be done with this stupid assignment ASAP, and she's not helping.

"Well _excuse_ me for not being a literary genius like you, Iris. And I thought the whole point of this stuff was that there's not supposed to be one single right way to interpret it. So I'm exercising my creative license, aren't I?" he whines.

Iris rolls her eyes at him. "Barry, your entire paper is about the science behind rational decision making and the gradual wearing down of man-made paths in natural environments. You didn't interpret anything—you were just stating facts. And you_ completely_ missed the point of the assignment."

Barry pouts at her, but of course he knows she's right. English is her thing, science is his. It's usually a good balance—he helps her with science-y stuff she doesn't get, she helps him with papers like these. They've worked out a system, well-oiled and perfectly tuned just like everything else when it comes to the two of them.

Only it just so happens that the system generally doesn't work quite as well when he's been so preoccupied with more important things (although Iris of course would scold him and insist that this is just as important) that he's waited until the day before the paper is due to ask her for help. He should have known she wouldn't let him off easy.

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'll listen to you. But can we please skip the reading out loud thing? Please? It's hurting my brain."

Iris raises an eyebrow at him, and he can already see the answer written plainly in her eyes, sparkling with mischief.

Sure enough, she brings the paper up close to her face, squints at it, and begins reading the poem excerpt out loud again. Well, not reading, actually. More like shouting it at the top of her lungs.

He cringes and curses at the evil grin on her face as she takes in his pain, and he lunges to snatch the paper away from her.

She laughs and dodges his attack, leaning safely out of the way, which unfortunately ends with him losing his balance and toppling off his chair. It's only embarrassing until Iris, doubled over with laughter, ends up laughing so hard that she falls out of her chair, too.

They lay on the floor together, laughing at themselves and at each other until they have tears in their eyes, the paper sitting on the table above them forgotten for now.

"I think we've been working pretty hard on editing this paper, don't you? Break time?" Iris finally hiccups when she's stopped giggling long enough to get a full sentence out.

"Break time," Barry confirms.

xXx

Note: The poem is called "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost—not mine.


	13. Warmth

_**Prompt: Keeping the other person warm**_

**xXx**

For as long as Iris could remember, they'd been each other's warmth.

It started when they were little kids, and Iris had found him sitting alone on the swings during recess. It had been the end of September, just as the leaves were beginning to change color, just as the air was beginning to cool and abandon the comfortable heat that the end-of-summer weather had brought.

She'd skipped happily over to where he'd been sitting and plopped herself down on the empty swing next to him, put her chin in her hands, and stared at him for at least a minute until he'd finally noticed she was there. He'd been off in his own little world, and she'd thoughtfully studied his appearance, his over-large t-shirt and scuffed converse making him seem small and unassuming. She'd noticed right away that he was shivering, and had taken in his distinct lack of a jacket.

_''Scuse me'_ she'd asked, reaching over and tapping him on the shoulder, _'what're you doing here all by yourself?'_

He'd looked at her with wide eyes, and then swept his gaze this way and that, like he was sure that he would find someone else nearby, like he couldn't believe she could be talking to him. When it was clear that they were alone, he'd blushed and shoved his hands beneath his legs, absentmindedly swinging his legs back and forth, just barely brushing the ground. His response had been so soft and quiet she'd almost missed it.

_''Cause nobody wants to be my friend. Everyone thinks I'm lame. At least that's what Tony says,'_he'd pouted, staring fixedly at the ground.

Iris had very much wanted to find stupid Tony Woodward and punch him in the face, but instead, she'd contented herself with balling her hands into little fists and scrunching up her nose, forcing herself to let the anger pass.

_'Well, that's stupid.__** I **__want to be your friend,' _she'd huffed, and he'd looked up at her in surprise.

_'Yeah?'_ he'd asked, so uncertain, so in awe of her.

_'Uh, yeah,__** duh.**__ My daddy says it's not good to lie. I wouldn't lie to you, promise.'_

They'd smiled at each other, both unaware of the weight of that moment, of the long-lasting bond they'd just forged. Both just lonely kids happy to have made a new friend.

And then there'd been a gust of wind, and her new friend had wrapped his arms around himself, shivering.

_'Why don't you gotta coat?'_ Iris had frowned at him in concern.

He'd shrugged, embarrassed.

_'It was warm enough yesterday. I didn't think I'd need it today. But I should've listened to my mommy—she's always right.'_

Iris had nodded, hopped off the swing and stood right in front of him to tug at his arms. She'd pulled him off of his swing, eager to get his feet on the ground.

And then she'd taken a step forward and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tight. He'd stiffened at first, but it hadn't taken long for him to relax into her touch.

_'Um…why're you hugging me?'_ he'd asked, completely puzzled, but making no move break their embrace.

_'My daddy always says that you can transfer body heat by being real close to somebody. And hugs always help. Is it working?'_

_'Yeah, it's working,'_ he'd replied with a goofy smile that she hadn't seen, and he'd barely even felt the next gust of wind. Later, when his mom had scolded him for leaving his jacket at home, he'd told her that he was glad he did.

xXx

As they'd gotten older, the warmth had become less of a physical thing, and more of a feeling.

Iris could still remember the first night Barry had stayed with them after his mom had been murdered, and his whole world had been torn apart.

She'd been woken up late into to the night—or maybe it had been early into the morning?—by the muffled sobs coming from the room next to hers. In truth, she hadn't fully fallen asleep in the first place—she'd been too worried about Barry, about how he'd be holding up. And evidently, it wasn't well.

She'd creeped out of her room and into his, careful not to wake her father. The sight of her best friend, sitting on the bed, arms wrapped tightly around himself and rocking back and forth, had broken her heart.

She'd sat down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders, careful not to startle him. At first it had been like he hadn't even realized she was there, but she'd sat with him anyway, until suddenly he'd buried his face in her shoulder and cried, his tears soaking through her shirt.

That's when she'd noticed that he was shaking all over, teeth chattering and fingers trembling.

"_It's so cold, Iris. I'm so cold," _he'd said, his voice barely more than a whisper, even though the room had been stuffy and warm. She'd known immediately that he hadn't been talking about the temperature, but she'd wrapped a blanket around both their shoulders and held him close all the same. Eventually his shaking had stopped, and they'd fallen asleep like that, huddled up under the covers together for a different kind of warmth.

xXx

In the nine months that Barry had been in the coma, she had thought she'd never feel warm again. It was like someone had sucked all of it out of her, had removed every ounce of heat from her body and left her so, so numb.

She would visit him at S.T.A.R. Labs, and he wouldn't move, he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't even recognize that she was there. She'd be sitting right next to him, and yet he'd be so far away. And she felt cold, cold, cold.

Once, during one of her regular after-work visits, she had voiced this concern to Cisco and Caitlin.

_'It's really cold in here, don't you think?' _she'd asked.

Cisco had eyed her dubiously, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion as he'd mentioned something about the heater being on full blast.

But Caitlin had nodded at her, and from the look in her eyes, from the very way that she carried herself, Iris knew that she'd understood. That she had lost someone, too.

_'Yes. Yes, it's freezing,' _Caitlin had whispered, voice breaking, and shortly after she'd fled the room, Cisco following closely at her heels.

And as Iris had looked back at Barry, so pale and motionless, as she'd start to worry whether he was ever going to wake up, she'd wondered if he felt cold, too. If he could feel _anything_, laying there, oblivious to what was going on around him, so completely unaware of his surroundings. Unaware of_her_, sitting so close, with her hand always, always over his heart. Assuring herself that he wasn't entirely gone. Not yet.

She'd figured he was probably just as numb.

She'd lay her jacket over him and lie down beside him, trying to warm him up, trying to make herself warm, but it never worked. He was there in body, but he wasn't really there with her.

And then she'd met Eddie, and her world had thawed just a little. Some of the warmth she'd been so desperately missing had started to bleed back into her veins. And yet, as long as Barry wasn't by her side, as long as the daunting prospect that he'd never wake up, that she'd lost him forever, still hung over her head, it just wasn't the same. Not even close.

xXx

It wasn't until the day Barry had stepped into Jitters, until she had seen him walking toward her, awake and smiling and very much alive, that she had remembered exactly what she'd been missing, what it was like to feel full again, and only then had the numbness truly melted away.

And it hadn't even been until he'd caught her in his arms and they had held each other tight that the heat had really filled her up again, seeped into every pore, traveled through every inch of her body. In that moment, she'd never felt warmer.


	14. Love Drunk

_**Prompt: "Are you drunk?"**_

**xXx**

They take care of each other. It's kind of just what they do, something they've done since day one and Iris had knocked a bully out cold for teasing him on the playground. They'd bonded in detention and things just kind of took off from there.

She'd been there for him when his mom died like no one else had, the only one who'd believed him, the light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel.

He'd been there for her their freshman year when she'd been stood up on her first ever real date, her favorite ice-cream at the ready and brownies in the oven as he'd popped a movie into the DVD player and let her cry into his shoulder. Looking back she doesn't think she'd ever seen him so mad, before that night, when he'd found out someone had hurt her like that.

Even after they'd both gone their separate ways when they'd left for college, the distance hadn't lessened it any. They still looked out for each other like no one else did. She still sat on the phone with him for two hours to talk him down from a panic attack over an important e-mail he had to send to a professor, to calm his anxiety and reassure him everything would be okay.

He still stayed up with her all night when she'd called him hysterics about a huge test she'd had the next day that she hadn't felt prepared for, and even though he had a lab report to work on, he'd insisted on video-chatting with her the entire time to help her study, keep her focused and her feet on the ground, and she'd ended up passing with flying colors.

The list goes on and on. They're always in each other's debt, but neither of them really cares about keeping score; they just care about each other.

So she's not really surprised when she gets a call from him towards the end of their first semester at three in the morning, seeking her help. It's lucky she's still awake, marathoning movies on Netflix—although if she's being honest she would have answered anyway.

"Barry, you are aware of what time it is, aren't you?"

"Heeeeey Iris," he slurs, sounding both excited to hear her voice and very confused as to what's going on. Iris pinches the bridge of her nose.

"Are you drunk?"

"Whaaat? No, not—of _course_ not. I'm just…just…okay, maaaybe a little."

She wonders how much he's had, gauging his level of inebriation based on what she knows of his various levels of drunkenness from all the times they'd sneaked it out of the house in their mischievous high school years to drink together, to get a feel for it before they left home. Probably not much, honestly, Barry is _such _a light weight.

She hears giggling in the background, and suddenly realizes she has no idea where he's calling her from. It sounds like he's out outside—she can vaguely make out the noise from a car or two passing by, and she's suddenly concerned as to why he's outside at three in the morning when it's at a time of year where it's still very cold out.

"Barry, where are you? Is someone there with you?"

"Well, that's the thing, Iris," he says, taking a brief pause to say something to whoever is with him, "I really have no idea. I mean—yeah there's someone with me, my buddy Hal here—say 'hi' to Iris, Hal!—" she hears a jovial _'hello!' _in the background, followed by a 'wait, _the_ Iris?' and a 'shhh, shut uuup Hal, shut your mouth'. She rolls her eyes fondly.

"You were saying…?"

"Oh, right. Well, that's why I'm calling. I need you to—I mean, could you pleaaase look up our location? If I describe our surroundings…maybe you could…maybe…tell us where we are?"

She resists the urge to laugh, but then she's hit with a wave of confusion.

"Okay, one: why don't you know where you are? Two: how did you get there? And three: why are you asking me?"

It's a few seconds before he responds, and she's briefly afraid he might have passed out before he answers.

"That…" he says slowly, deliberately, "…is a really good question. How did we get here Hal?"

There's muffled conversation on the other line, but Iris is able to catch a few bits and pieces.

"You mean to tell me they have hazing for the _science club_?" she asks incredulously, putting two and two together.

"Well, yeah, we're freshmen. That's what happens to freshmen. But, uh, we're _supposed _to find our way back on our own, so we can't really call the other guys. But! No one said I couldn't call you. Where are we, Iris?"

She mutters something under her breath about boys being idiots, and uses the GPS app on her phone to find out where he's calling from. Somehow it's closer to her school than his—not that they're really that far apart, anyway, but she doesn't know how he managed it.

"I'm picking you up," she says, and she can hear him start to protest before she even finishes her sentence.

"No, don't, s'late, you don't have to…you don't have to do that. We just need…um…what do we need? Directions! That's right. Directions. Don't worry 'bout me. G'back to sleep."

She sighs and shakes her head. Of course he wouldn't want to bother her, even when he's drunk off his ass. She can tell by the way he's talking that he's close to falling asleep, though, and she's not going to risk him falling asleep on the side of the road at this time of night…or morning, rather.

Besides, the last time he'd visited and she'd dragged him out to a party with her, he'd ended up carrying her back to her dorm piggy-back style when she was woozy and hiccuping because her heels had been bothering her feet, even though he'd known that she was dangerously close to throwing up all over him the entire walk back. She supposes she owes him, plus she doesn't really mind anyway. He'd do the same for her in a heartbeat.

"It's alright, I'm already up anyway. And there's no arguing with me on this one—it's a lost cause. I'm coming to get you."

"Fiiine," he says, too exhausted and too drunk to argue.

"Oh, and Iris?" he adds, just as she's about to hang up.

"Yeah, Bar?" she sighs, and she hears Hal snickering in the background.

"…Could you. Um. Could you bring me a pair of pants?"

She almost asks. Almost. She decides she's probably better off not knowing.

He's lucky she has a habit of stealing his sweatpants and hoodies—she's got a whole supply of them at home, and she'd made sure to take a few with her to college. Otherwise he'd be stuck trying to fit into her pants—which, given her height compared to his, would be pretty much impossible. After she fishes a pair out of her drawer, she grabs her keys and heads to the main lot, and hops into her car.

When she gets to where he is, Barry is sitting on the sidewalk, eyes closed and leaning against the guy she assumes is his fellow freshman, Hal, who also appears to be asleep. As she gets closer, either the lights from her car or the noise it makes as she pulls up must get their attention, because both of them open their eyes and squint blearily into the headlights.

As soon as Barry sees it's her, he jumps to his feet (and almost stumbles right back over) and waves at her enthusiastically, clearly happy to see her. She laughs to herself and gets out of the car to help steady him and guide him to the passenger seat as his friend clambers into the back. It's not until he's sitting down that she realizes he's in his boxers and remembers his odd request. Curiosity gets the best of her, and she decides she really, really wants to know, after all.

"Barry," she coughs, trying to hold back a fit of laughter, "what was it that happened to your pants, exactly?"

"Don't r'member" he mumbles sleepily, already slumped over in the seat and drifting off again. Then his eyes snap open.

"Did you bring me replacements?"

"Yes, Barr, I brought you replacements," she giggles, throwing the pair of sweatpants at him and watching as he clumsily pulls them on.

"You are an angel, Iris West," he says, falling sideways into her lap as he tries to pull a leg through the wrong pant hole. "Have I ever told you that I love you? I looove you, like, really…really…" he mumbles into her leg and doesn't get back up, and she realizes that he's fallen asleep. She runs her fingers through his hair, smiling, and it's not until she hears a voice from the backseat of the car that she even remembers she has another passenger.

"He really does, you know," Hal says thickly, watching the two of them, "a looot. Never shuts up about you. It's like…he's like…you know…" he blinks sleepily, making vague gestures with his hands as if that will explain what his brain can't put into words at the moment.

Oddly enough, Iris _does _think she knows what he means. But she's not expecting the way her heart speeds up or the sudden flutter in her stomach at what he's implying—or maybe that's a big fat lie. Maybe it's exactly what she expects.

"Yeah…"

She directs her attention back to Barry, who's fast asleep with his head against her leg, and realizes that she still hasn't stopped stroking his hair.

"Love you, too, Barr."


	15. Unexpected Visit

_**Prompt: "I'll be right over." (with Bart or Wally)**_

**xXx**

"Barry," Iris groans into the phone as soon as he picks up, her voice tired and strained and a little put-out.

"Hey, Iris, what's up?"

"Wally's here. Says he was in the area and, ah, stopped by for a visit. Anyway, he's demanding to see you. Says it's absolutely crucial that he speaks to you."

Barry blinks, confused, wondering what on Earth Wally could possibly want from him. He tries to recount his recent actions, to pinpoint anything he might have done to piss him off, but he comes up at a loss.

"What did I do?"

Iris sighs, and he can picture her shaking her head, probably pinching the bridge of her nose like she does when she's exhausted or annoyed.

"I don't know. But please hurry and get your ass over here. He won't stop nagging me about it."

Barry hears a vague _'I heard that, Iris!'_ in the background, and can't help but laugh to himself. Whatever trouble he's gotten himself into with the kid, it'll still be nice to see him again. He's always good company.

"Alright, alright. I'll be right over."

And he is, literally, right over. It's nice not to have to hide the fact that he can very easily make it to places in like, two seconds flat, from her anymore. Even worth the entire month it took her to finally speak to him again after she found out. Which he absolutely deserved, and which he's still making up for, and probably will be for a long, long, time—but still. It's nice not having any secrets between them anymore.

'Over' in this case is to Joe's—they're having a family dinner night, and Barry and Iris promised Joe they'd cook, although Barry hadn't planned on heading over until later. He supposes Wally must have assumed that's were they'd be.

"Oh, thank God," she breathes when she opens the door to find him standing on her doorstep. She yanks him inside, and pushes him toward the living room, where Wally is sitting on the couch, eyeing him with disapproval.

"Uh, hey Wally, what's up?" he asks, giving him a nervous smile that Wally doesn't return. Instead, he narrows his eyes at Barry and glares.

"Don't you _'what's up'_ me, Barry. I've got a bone to pick with you," he says, pointing an accusing finger at him.

Barry shoots a bewildered glance at Iris, who's hanging back and watching the scene unfold with interest. She shrugs and spreads her hands wide as if to say _'you got me'_.

"Um…"

"You didn't tell me you dated Linda Park, dude. _The _Linda Park. Or as I'd like to think, my future wife. How could you do that to me, man? I thought we were friends. _Family_."

"Oh," Barry coughs, a little taken aback, because this was by far not what he was expecting. He glances at Iris and yeah, the atmosphere in the room has just gotten at least ten times more awkward. "I didn't know you knew her…?"

"I don't," Wally clarifies, a sudden interest in his eyes as his gaze darts between Barry and Iris, their sudden tension not going unnoticed. "Well, not yet, at least. Not personally. I follow her stuff in the paper. And I've had like, one conversation with her before, when I visited Iris during her first week of work. She's amazing," he sighs dreamily, all anger apparently forgotten. "I'm going to marry her someday."

"That's…that's nice, Wally," Barry says awkwardly, fervently wishing for this conversation to be over. "But if you want someone to…introduce you, I'd ask Iris. They're still pretty good friends. Linda was really cool, but it just didn't work out between us."

Wally shakes his head in disbelief.

"I just can't believe you dumped _Linda Park_," he marvels, and Barry conveniently decides not to mention that it was actually Linda who dumped him. For the same reason it was never going to work out between them in the first place, of course, but Wally doesn't need to know that.

"I also can't believe you'd betray me like that. I thought Iris was the love of your life! How is it possible that you guys aren't a thing yet? I can't believe I'm going to lose that bet I made with Joe."

He grins wickedly at them, obviously expecting some sort of reaction, but Barry just clears his throat loudly and takes a step closer to Iris, just as she's moving towards him, and slips an arm around her waist.

"Well, actually…" he trails off, looking down at Iris as she's beaming up at him, losing himself in her smile.

"No way," Wally says slowly, his grin growing even wider, "No way! You're telling me that after all these years you two have finally gotten your heads out of your asses and got together?"

"Well," Iris laughs, "that's one way to put it. But yeah, dude, we don't even live here anymore. We have our own place now—you just happened to stop by while I was visiting home for family dinner night."

"Sweet," Wally says, hopping off of the couch and walking over to them, enveloping them in a signature West bear hug. "_Excellent._ This is the best new I've gotten all week. Well, actually, the second best," he muses, stepping back and relinquishing his hold on them, just in time to catch Iris raising an eyebrow at him, "if you can get me Linda's number. Or at least put in a good word for me."

Iris rolls her eyes at him, but it's with affection when she responds.

"Fine, I'll talk to her. But if you do end up going out with her you better treat her right. She's a good friend of mine."

"Cross my heart and hope to die," Wally promises, grinning ear-to-ear, and even though he's being his usual goofy self,

Iris knows he's serious about this. She trusts him.

"Good," she nods, leaning into Barry's shoulder. She looks up at him again and when he smiles at her, she wonders how they ever could have waited this long for this.

"So!" Wally announces, making his presence known after a few seconds pass of Barry and Iris gazing lovingly into each other's eyes, "I hope you know that I'll be joining you all for dinner."


	16. Slow to Catch On

_**Prompt: "I'm flirting with you."**_

**xXx**

Here's the thing about Barry and Iris: when you put the two of them together and introduce any sort of _feelings _into the equation, they're kind of a mess. The best kind of mess, but still—they tend to bring these things on themselves, and make things a lot more complicated then they need to be.

After Barry tells her he loves her, Iris spends hours, days, even weeks kicking herself after the fact, observing him closely but with a distance between them that they've never quite had before, wondering how in God's name she could have been so damn oblivious.

That is at least until she realizes she loves him right back, a whole fucking lot, so much so she wonders how it's possible to feel all that for just one person. But she does, and she's so ridiculously obvious about it she surprises herself.

And this time it's _him_ that doesn't catch on, who's apparently completely blind to it, and they're stuck in this ridiculous cycle of hidden, longing glances when one isn't looking and pursued lips that are itching to be kissed and hearts that are aching with unexpressed love.

_What a mess._

Iris, at least, has the advantage of knowing that her feelings aren't one-sided. At least, she doesn't think they are.

_'I don't have those feelings for you anymore' _he'd told her…and yet she noticed everything now, was so hyper-aware of everything that he did, of the meaning behind every look, every movement. The way his mouth would tighten when she would kiss Eddie and he was nearby, the way his fists would clench and the muscle would work in his jaw when the two of them were together. And then there's that _look_ in his eyes whenever he sees her.

Yeah, she's calling bullshit on that one.

Somewhere down the line she calls it quits with Eddie. She feels guilty doing so, but the love she feels for him just doesn't fill her up the same way her love for Barry does. She hadn't really known that it was possible feel this full and this much, but now that she does, now that she knows that there's something inside her that Eddie's just never going to be able to satisfy, there's really no going back. It wouldn't be fair to him, and it wouldn't be fair to herself, either, if she were to go on living her life as though that wasn't the case.

She figures things don't work out between Barry and Linda for pretty much the same reason.

And then they're both conveniently single again, and both very much in love with each other, but he still hasn't caught on and she doesn't know what to say, or how to tell him. This feels huge. This is daunting. This could change everything.

So she approaches the situation cautiously, with the care and deliberation she's picked up as a journalist. She starts dropping hints.

Letting her hand linger on his just a little too long, letting her touch carry weight and letting her skin graze his whenever she can. Making it a point to remind him what he means to her. Winking at him just a little too often to be strictly friendly, throwing out random compliments here and there. Following the protocol she had set up in eighth grade to help her win over a boy she was interested in, and reel in her crushes—a set of rules and guidelines she had actually sat down and written out one day after school. She doesn't know how he doesn't recognize what she's doing. He helped her create the damn thing.

And then there's still that underlying tension, those not-so-secret stolen looks, those feelings constantly crackling beneath the surface every time they interact, that it's only a matter of time before it all explodes.

"Barry Allen," she practically growls, barging into his lab one day and standing next to his desk with her hands on her hips, prepared to make one last attempt, "have I ever told you how cute you are?"

He blinks at her in surprise, her angry tone completely clashing with the sentiment she's giving him. He doesn't know what to think, or how to respond.

"Umm, thank you?" he says it as a question, slowly pushing his chair away from his desk, putting space between them. She looks like she wants to hit something. "Why are you…telling me this?"

Iris groans in frustration and slams a fist down on the desk, making him jump.

"Goddammit, Barry, _I'm flirting with you_," she yells, stomping her foot, annoyed that he still hasn't gotten the picture. "I've been flirting with you for _weeks_. I'm trying to get you to realize that I want to be _with you,_ with you."

It takes him a few seconds to remember how to work his muscles and pick his jaw up off the ground, and for his brain to process what he's hearing. When he does, he stands up cautiously on legs that are shaking and makes himself move so that he's facing her, taking in the angry tears in her eyes.

"Why didn't you just say so?" he asks, hardly daring to believe it, wanting so much for it to be true.

"Oh, _please_," she says, rolling her eyes, "like you're one to talk."

And he can't really argue with that. He can, however, take her face in his hands and kiss away nearly fifteen years of pent-up feelings, of bursting love, of sorely lost time.

And he does.


	17. Dear Barry

_**Prompt: things you said that I wasn't meant to hear**_

**xXx**

_Dear Barry,_

Did you know that you talk in your sleep? Really loud, actually. I've known that since we were six and you slept over our house because your parents were away for the night. And then again when we were eleven and I could hear you calling out for your mother, even with the door closed, and there was nothing I could do to help you but wake you up. I always hated doing that—it always felt like I was intruding on something private, on something that I wasn't meant to overhear.

You should know that this Christmas wasn't the first time you told me you loved me. I've heard you say it about a million times before, under your breath and with your eyes closed, with my head on your shoulder, whenever we'd fall asleep on the couch together after being up all night watching TV. I just never knew that you meant it like that. Now I feel guilty for all those times that I heard it and never really realized, like I was eavesdropping on some big secret you weren't ready to tell.

And now that we're together, now that we share a bed and I almost always fall asleep after you, I hear you talk all time. It doesn't bother me, honestly, it's actually nice to hear your voice at night sometimes. Comforting. It was at first, at least. But then you started apologizing. You would say sorry all the time when you're weren't awake. And I started to wonder why, until the day I walked in on your conversation with Cisco, and I found out what you've been hiding from me all this time. And yeah, you should be damned sorry.

I hung back so that I could hear everything you were saying, so that you wouldn't stop talking when you realized I was there, and for once I didn't feel guilty. I needed to know. I deserved to know. I think the part that hurts most is that I wasn't supposed to hear—that you didn't _want_ me hear.

I guess when I walked into the room and you finally saw me, you could see it my face that I knew. You said _'to protect me'_ and you said _'I'm so sorry' _and you said _'I didn't mean to hurt you'. _And the worst part is that I know that's probably true, that I know you didn't mean to, but all I could hear was _'I didn't trust you'_. Because how can you expect me to believe anything you say after this, how did you not realize how much damage you were doing with every lie?

I think what you did was pretty unforgivable. You're the person I trust most in the world, and you_lied _to me, over and over and over again, right to my face. And I'm so angry at you, Barry, _I'm so fucking angry_, and I don't want to forgive you, I don't want to let you off that easy, but I know I'm going to anyway.

I know that I will because it's so much easier to love you than it is to hate you. And it's infuriating, and it's killing me, because I want so much to be able to hate you right now, I really do, but to be honest I don't think I could even if I tried. And I'm so furious with you I can't even see straight, but I'm so proud of you too. You're a fucking liar, Barry Allen, but you're also a hero, and you're still my best friend.

So I'm still going to love you. And it's going to take a long, long time, but I'm still going to forgive you, too. I don't see how I couldn't, eventually. But you've got a pretty damn long road of apologies ahead of you—and they better not just be in your sleep.

_With love, with anger, with hope for a more honest future,_

—_Iris_


	18. Wide Awake When I'm With You

_**Prompt: "why do they never serve coffee at weddings?"**_

**xXx**

Iris had a love-hate relationship with weddings. She loved the idea of them, she loved seeing two people so happy and so in love, and she loved all the celebration that ensued. She did not, however, like being _involved_ in weddings. Having to plan things, making sure everything was running smoothly, ensuring the people getting married had their perfect special day. A fact she'd only recently discovered through being appointed as the maid of honor in Linda and Wally's wedding.

She had been more than happy to take up the mantle when Linda had first approached her about it—in fact she'd been thrilled, and ridiculously honored. Helping out two of her favorite people in the world; what could be better? Of course, that had been before all of…this. The preparation, the sleepless nights, the endless list of things she needed to get done and all the worry about everything that could go wrong. And yet, if Linda were to ask again, even now, even knowing how _tiring_ it all was, she would still say yes in a heartbeat. She just wished the whole process wasn't quite so painful.

Rationally, she knew that she was taking on more than she had to, that she could've left most of it for the actual wedding planner to do—but she knew the bride and groom better than anyone, save for each other, and she wanted to personally make sure that everything would be perfect.

By the day the actual wedding rolled around, she was at her wits end. Completely burnt out, running on fumes, and ready to crash. She had been so worried about making the day perfect that she hadn't even really been able to enjoy the bachelorette party she'd thrown for Linda the night before—and they'd had strippers and everything, a healthy mix of guys and girls, just like she knew Linda liked. Especially considering her current single status, it should have been wonderful. But it wasn't. Instead she was worried about the iffy-looking forecast, and whether or not it was going to rain and ruin _everything_.

It hadn't, thank God. But there was still a whole slew of other things she had to worry about, and she'd been going through the day ticking things off the list, all the way through the vows, and then the reception.

By the time she could finally sit down and relax, after she delivered her toast and as she watched people swaying happily on the dance floor, a sense of satisfaction wash over her knowing that she'd done well, she just wanted to crawl into bed and sleep for about a month. Instead, she contented herself with folding her arms on the table before her and lying her head down on top of them, closing her eyes, trying to block out the music and fall asleep right there.

She was just on the brink of sleep when a voice pulled her away from it, and she lifted her head from her arms in annoyance.

"What?" she snapped, glaring blearily up at whomever it was that had disturbed her nap.

"I, uh, I asked if you wanted some water? I don't want you to get sick..."

She blinked the sleepiness out of her eyes. It took her a few seconds to realize that she was staring directly at someone's chest. She mumbled something under her breath about tall people, and directed her gaze up a little further, until she found his face.

It was an incredibly cute one...and also vaguely familiar. She tilted her head and squinted at him, but still couldn't place the face to a name, and after a few seconds of thoughtful consideration, decided it must've been her imagination playing tricks on her.

She let her eyes sweep up and down, taking in the uniform that suggested he was part of the banquet serving staff and the pitcher of water in his hand before responding.

"And why would I get sick?" she asked, the heat gone from behind her voice and replaced with honest curiosity.

He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand as he stammered out an apology.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry. I thought you…well, you had your head down, and there's all these empty glasses around you, and I was afraid that you might've…passed out…"

"Oh, no, you thought I was passed out on this table because I was drunk?" she laughed, shaking her head. She hadn't even had a sip of alcohol yet—she'd been too scared about messing up her speech.

She supposed she couldn't blame the guy. She probably posed a pretty strange sight, the only one sitting at her table, head down, completely out of it. And even though he was way off the mark, she couldn't help but feel a little touched at how genuinely concerned he seemed.

"Nah, these aren't mine," she said, gesturing to all the empty wine glasses in front of the recently vacated seats around her, "I'm just tired. I was actually trying to sleep—something I haven't done in a while."

"Ah," the guy nodded, looking apologetic. "Okay. Really sorry for waking you, then."

He gave her a sweet smile before moving to walk away—only Iris had already decided that she didn't want him to leave.

"Hey, wait, I never said I didn't want any water," she called after him, grinning at the startled expression on his face as he turned back around at the sound of her voice. She watched in amusement as he stumbled back over to her table, nearly tripping over his feet and spilling the pitcher of water all in her lap in the process.

He shot a few nervous glances at her as he filled up her cup, and she had to clear her throat loudly to make sure he didn't keep pouring it past the brim.

Before he could walk away again, Iris snatched the picture of water out of his hand and set it down on the table. She patted the seat next to her expectantly, signaling him to sit down. He stood there awkwardly for a few seconds, gaze sweeping all around him, as though he couldn't believe she was still referring to him. She raised an eyebrow at him expectantly as if to say _'yes, you'_, and he finally shrugged and plopped down next to her.

"You know, I'm supposed to be working. I could get in trouble for this," he said, sounding nervous but slightly excited.

Iris waved her hand unconcernedly and flashed a reassuring smile at him.

"Relax, you won't. Look, everyone's dancing right now anyway. The rest of the servers are taking breaks too. And you're keeping me company…" she trailed off, prompting him to give her his name.

"It's, uh, it's Barry. Um, Allen."

"Well, nice to meet you Barry. I'm Iris West."

"Nice to meet you too, Miss We—" he started, but fell silent as he watched Iris scrunch up her nose in distaste.

"Please, just call me Iris."

He smiled hesitantly at her in response and wiped his palms on his pant leg before shaking her outstretched hand. The poor guy—he was obviously incredibly nervous. _She_ was making him nervous. She grinned to herself; the thought made her feel powerful. And not to mention confident.

Obviously, poor, adorable Barry wasn't feeling the same. She watched him wringing his hands together, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder, and decided the least she could do was to try and put him at ease. She cleared her throat, and once she had his attention again, attempted to break the ice.

"So, Barry. You're part of the catering staff. So you might have an answer for me here, because for the life of me I still don't understand it: Why do they never serve coffee at weddings? I've always thought that they should."

He nodded in agreement, relaxing a little at the casual small talk and the soothing tone of her voice.

"I don't know, honestly. It is a good idea though—I could definitely go for some caffeine right now."

And she believed it. Not for the first time since they'd been talking, she took in the very obvious bags beneath his eyes, the exhaustion in his voice and the tired slump of his shoulders. Before she could even ask, he was already explaining it for her.

"I'm working like, three jobs right now. Trying to pay my way through med school. It's really…well, it's really not fun."

Iris shuddered at the thought, and grimaced sympathetically.

"Ugh, that does sound pretty awful," she said, and when she looked at him again, something clicked.

_No way._

"Wait…Barry, what are some of these other jobs you're working? Just out of curiosity."

His blush all but confirmed her suspicions, and he carefully avoided her eyes when he responded, rubbing the back of his neck again in embarrassment.

"Oh, you know…whatever I can get, really. I'll do anything if I'm getting paid."

"Anything, huh? Like, for instance, helping provide some _excellent_ entertainment at bachelorette parties?"

Iris watched in amusement as Barry's eyes widened in horror, as he went from pink to pale to beet-red in mortification.

He caught her grinning at him knowingly and groaned, propping his elbows up on the table and letting his head fall into his hands.

"That was a _one-time thing_," he hissed under his breath, horrified. "I was filling in for a friend, I swear. Doing them a favor. And I'm desperate, okay? I told you I'd take whatever I could get. Oh my God, Iris, stop _laughing_," he mumbled into his hands, refusing to lift his gaze from the table.

"Sorry, sorry," Iris said, taking a few breaths to calm herself down and stifling another laugh. "I'm not trying to make fun of you, I promise. It's just—I _knew_ you looked familiar."

It was honestly hard to believe that the person sitting next to her was the same one she'd seen the night before. Sure, she vaguely remembered him standing uncomfortably in the corner at first, and being the last one to take his shirt off too, but once he got going…she may have been preoccupied with other things at the time, but damn, she had eyes. That wasn't something you forgot.

And _wow_, thinking back, there was definitely some muscle hiding behind that lanky exterior. She didn't even realize she was spacing out until the sound of Barry clearing his throat pulled her away from the beautiful things her imagination had been coming up with using this knowledge.

"So," he coughed uncomfortably, desperate to steer the conversation away from himself, "why are you so tired, then? Your reason can't be any more embarrassing than mine."

She laughed good naturedly and was pleased to see that he was finally smiling, too.

"Well, I'm the maid of honor. I don't even want to talk about how stressful it's been, especially over the past few days. I haven't gotten a full night's sleep in…God knows how long. I probably look like a mess," she sighed, thinking about how despite all of the time she'd spent doing her makeup, she still hadn't really been able to make herself look any less exhausted.

"Oh, please—you look amazing," Barry stated matter-of-factly, rolling his eyes at her suggesting anything otherwise.

The compliment took her slightly off guard, and it took a moment for it to really register, but a slow smile spread across her face as it did. Unfortunately, Barry must have interpreted brief silence the wrong way, because before she could open her mouth to thank him he was already stumbling over another apology.

"Um, I mean—Oh, God, that was probably weird, wasn't it? I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"Barry," Iris said with a laugh, cutting him off before he could ramble any further. "It's okay, I appreciate it, really. Thank you."

He let out sigh of relief and gave her a shaky smile, the pink tinge fading from his ears.

After a few more minutes of small talk, their conversation began to flow easily, and soon enough they were practically talking like old friends. Iris had always been a social butterfly, and he was remarkably easy to get along with, and incredibly friendly once he started to get comfortable around her. They were so engaged in conversation that neither of them even noticed the time flying by, not until she felt a tap on her shoulder and saw Linda standing behind her, Wally at her side and with his arm around her waist.

"Iris, thank you so much for helping make this all happen. It's been incredible, really. And come on, join us! Have some fun!" Linda said excitedly, gesturing towards the mass of people dancing, and then casting a meaningful glance towards Barry and then back to Iris, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. Wally nodded vaguely in agreement, but Iris had a feeling he hadn't really been listening—he was too busy staring at Linda in awe, as if he still couldn't believe that she was his _wife_.

"It was my pleasure," Iris said with a smile, and really, it was worth all the time and effort just seeing how happy the two of them were. Linda beamed at her before making her way back to the dance floor, and Iris stood up and made to follow them, turning back around to face Barry.

"Dance with me?" she asked, hoping for a yes.

"I really shouldn't," Barry said, eyes darting back and forth to the other servers who were starting to clear the tables around them. "I need to help clean up."

"Oh, fine," she pouted, knowing that he was probably right and not wanting to be the reason he got in trouble. "Some other time, then. I mean, I hope this isn't be the last time I'll be seeing you."

"Sure," he said with a smile, "if you want. I just hope I don't step on your feet—I'm not exactly good at it."

"I think I'll live. And I'm holding you to that, by the way. I have your number now, so you can't escape," she winked at him.

He opened his mouth, prepared to say something else, and abruptly closed it. She could practically see wheels turning in his head as a look of excitement passed over his features.

"What?" she asked, curious at the sudden light in his eyes.

"Well, I was just thinking," he said slowly, "if you're still tired tomorrow, and you're still looking for a good cup of coffee, I know a really nice place in the area if you want to go. With me, I mean. Go out with me…to get coffee. Yeah."

She smiled fondly as he fumbled with his words, debating whether or not to give him a quick kiss on the cheek as a proper goodbye. In the end, she figured why not, and stood on her tippy-toes to reach him, her lipstick leaving a faint red mark on his skin. It was worth it for the silly smile it left on his face, as he brought his hand up to touch the spot where her lips had been with a dazed expression.

"I'd love to. Now get back to work before you get yelled at, and call me tomorrow," she laughed, waving him off.

His responding nod was so enthusiastic, she was almost afraid he would hurt his neck. He gave her one last elated smile before hurrying over to help pick up empty glasses and plates from the tables, and she let herself drift toward her friends on the dance floor.

She could practically feel his gaze on her the rest of the night. She wondered if he felt hers, too.

_~three years later~_

"Barry, your face is going to freeze like that if you keep that up," Iris laughed, pinching his cheeks.

"Would that be such a bad thing?" he asked, grinning at her. She didn't think she'd seen him stop smiling once yet today, not even as tears had filled his eyes when she'd made her way down the aisle, not even when he'd been reciting his vows and focusing on not breaking down in hysterics, not even when he'd been kissing the bride. To be fair, she honestly hadn't either.

"Nah, you're right—I love your smile," she said with a bright one of her own. They were sitting at their table, and all the speeches and toasts had just finished. "Also, don't think I forgot that you owe me a dance."

She didn't leave him room to protest, just grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the dance floor, feeling happier than she had ever thought possible. Surprisingly, despite his normal aversion to dancing, he seemed more than happy to comply, to follow her wherever she guided him.

For the better half of the night, they barely sat down, and barely took their eyes off of each other—save for the traditional parent-and-child dances, and not long after they were back in each other's arms again. Hours flew by that felt like seconds, and although she was still high on the general euphoria of the day, Iris couldn't help the feeling of exhaustion creeping into her bones.

"Ugh, I feel like I'm going to collapse," she mumbled, swaying slowly side to side in Barry's arms, her head resting against his chest. "We've been dancing so long I can't even feel my feet anymore. But I don't even want to stop. I don't want this day to end."

Barry hummed in agreement.

"Sounds like you could use some caffeine," he said, and she didn't miss the smile in his voice. She lifted her head from his chest to look up at him, curious.

"I mean, yeah, I'd love some, but where are we gonna get any?"

"Well, you asked me once why they never served coffee at weddings. Turns out all you really need to do is ask. So, yeah, surprise—_our_ wedding has all the coffee you need."

"Oh my God, Barry," Iris laughed, putting a hand on the back of his neck and pulling him down for a quick kiss, and then resting her forehead against his. "I can't believe you actually remembered that."

"Well, evidently, you did too," he mused, bringing a hand up to cradle her face. "And honestly how couldn't I? It was when we first met, at a wedding just like this. And here we are again, only this time it's ours," he said, smiling ear-to-ear, eyes lit up with happiness.

She sighed happily, leaning into his touch. They stood there a few moments, both of them content in each other's arms, when a thought suddenly occurred to her.

"Hey, Barry," she said, fighting back a laugh, "you know that that technically wasn't the first time we met, right?"

"What do you m—_oh_." She watched his forehead crease in confusion, and then as the realization crept into his eyes, along with the horror. "Oh my God, Iris, you promised we would never speak of that again. _That doesn't count_, okay?"

"Whatever you say," she said with a shrug, grinning wickedly at him. "Although, you did lie about it being a one-time thing, you know. You've definitely proven that over these past few years."

"That's—that's different, Iris! That's just between the two of us."

"Okay, well, what do say about doing some of that totally-not-the-same-thing for me tonight, for our first night together as a married couple? Pleaaase?" She stuck out her lower lip and made her best puppy-dog eyes at him, the ones she knew he could never resist.

He groaned and shook his head at her, but he was still grinning all the same.

"_Fine_, okay," he sighed, tilting her chin up and leaning down to kiss her.

"Anything for you."


	19. Lightning

_**Prompt: "I almost lost you."**_

**xXx**

Ironically, it's getting struck by lightning that helps him overcome his fear of it. Before, thunderstorms were something that terrified him, that kept him up all night and made it hard to breathe. Because with every crack of lightning he'd close his eyes and see the man and yellow, he'd see blood, he'd see his mom's cold and lifeless body, he'd see his dad behind bars. He'd be violently reminded of everything that he'd lost, and how he'd lost it.

And then it had given him this gift—this wonderful, unbelievable gift to help people, and the very means by which to catch his mom's killer. It had changed his life, and given him a responsibility that didn't leave room for much fear outside of the impossible. So he isn't afraid of it anymore.

He wishes he could say the same for Iris, because the very same accident that had lessened his fear had given birth to hers. For him, it had been nothing more than a blink of an eye, almost like he'd gone to sleep and woken back up to find out he had superpowers.

For her, it had been nine agonizing months, months full of sleepless nights and panic attacks and dwindling hope. For her, it had been watching him die, watching his heart stop over and over again. For her, it had been nothing less than traumatic. So of course she associates lightning with that night, and of course she's afraid of it.

He would take back that fear in a heartbeat, he would trade without a second thought, if it would mean he could save her from it.

Rain is pounding down on the roof, the wind is howling outside of the windows, and the distant _cracks_ and _booms _seem to shake the house with volume, but in the end it's her crying that wakes him up.

His heart breaks when he sees her, sitting up with her knees pulled up to her chest, rocking back and forth with her hands clutching at her head and her nails digging into her scalp. He watches her move to clap her hands over her ears as another _crack_ and a _boom_ resonate throughout the place, as the room is momentarily bathed in light from the flash of lightning outside.

In reality, it doesn't last for more than a second. But for him, it's as though time has slowed down, as though everything is happening in slow motion as the light reveals the whites of her eyes, wide open in terror, and the wetness on her cheeks. It's times like these, when he's forced to watch the tears clinging to her eye-lashes in suspended motion, where his gift is more of curse.

"Iris," he says, voice breaking, no more than a whisper. "Oh God, Iris."

"I can't—, I can't—, I can't—," she sobs, breath hitching in her throat. He's known the feeling, so it isn't hard to determine that the word she's looking for is _'breathe'_.

"Iris," he tries again, forcing himself to hold it together for her. "Iris, look at me. Don't try to speak. Just take a deep breath, okay? You're okay."

He puts a hand on her cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb, and forces her gaze toward him. He watches as she struggles to get the air into her lungs, to calm herself down.

"You—you—_you—_," she tries to say through strangled sob, shaking with dread. He can feel her trembling under his touch, and suddenly he understands. He pulls her into his arms and holds her tight, running his hands up and down her back to calm her down.

"Iris, _I'm okay_. I'm right here; I'm with you. I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

This, finally, seems to get through to her, as her erratic breathing and heart-wrenching sobs even out to silent tears, as he feels her chest steadily rise and fall as she finally allows herself to breathe again. He feels her go limp in his arms, allowing him to support her weight. They stay like that for a while, him never moving an inch, patiently waiting as she cries herself dry, reassuring her that he's there for her, that he's _alive_, until she's ready to pull away.

When she does, it's just far enough so that she can rest her head against his chest, and bury her face into his shoulder.

"You have—you have no idea what it was like. I—I almost lost you, Barry. _I almost lost you_," she hiccups, her voice small and hoarse from all the crying.

"But you didn't," he tells her matter-of-factly, taking her hand in his and guiding it to his heart, letting her feel the impossibly fast beating of his heart underneath her fingertips.

"No," she says slowly, like she still can't believe it. She tries to smile. "I didn't."

"And you won't," he reassures her, placing a gentle kiss on her forehead. "I won't ever leave you. Or at least I'll always come back."

She nods against his chest, relaxing a bit, but then there's another crack of lightning and he watches her flinch, takes in the way her body goes rigid.

"How about we do something to distract you?" he suggests, the idea suddenly occurring to him. "You know, like you used to do for me when we were kids and I would get nightmares, or when I couldn't sleep."

She sits back and gives him a watery smile, willing herself not to cry again.

"Barry Allen, are you seriously suggesting that we build a blanket fort?"

Barry squeezes her hand and grins back at her, determined to keep her at ease.

"That is _exactly_ what I'm suggesting."

They decide to make it right there on the bed, after fetching some extra pillows from the couch. Iris falls asleep before they can finish, curling up underneath what they've built together so far, the lines of worry finally leaving her face. Barry smiles and adds the finishing touches on his own before crawling into bed beside her, laying down on his side so that he can wrap his arms around her and hold her close.

Even half-asleep, she responds to his touch, turning around so that she's facing him and tucking her head beneath his chin. She shifts a little to place her hand on his chest again, right over his heart. It stays there all night.


	20. Not Going Anywhere

_**Prompt: "If you die, I'm gonna kill you."**_

**xXx**

She had meant it as a joke. A completely harmless, throw-away little comment—one she'd said out of mild annoyance and a reluctant sort of fondness as he'd given her that sheepish grin of his, the one that he always saved just for her after his phone would ring and he'd have to bail on their plans _again_ because someone was shooting up the grocery store or robbing a bank.

Or trying to take over the city with meta-human powers—that happened sometimes too.

He had hung up the phone wearing a guilty expression on his face, and before he'd even been able to open up his mouth to apologize she'd let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Fine, I get it. Go do your thing," she'd said, trying and failing to look irritated. Knowing what he was going to do, knowing how much good he was doing…well, it was hard to be well and truly annoyed when she was too busy feeling so proud.

He'd given her a quick peck on the cheek, grateful for the understanding. She'd jabbed a finger at his chest and leveled him with a stern look before letting him speed away.

"Just be safe, okay? If you die on me on date night, I'm gonna kill you."

At the time, he had laughed, and she had smiled, teasing. It had been funny. She had been joking. Looking back now, with her hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly it hurt and as the images she'd seen on TV replayed themselves over and over and over again in her head, it wasn't even remotely funny anymore.

She hadn't even said 'I love you'. Why hadn't she said I love you?

She tried again to block out the images, along with the evil little voice that kept telling her what it meant, what she'd find, but they were relentless. The Flash—_Barry_—getting tossed this way and that, thrown around like a rag doll by some unseen force, all caught live on the evening news.

And then it had stopped, and he'd been left just…laying there, unmoving, looking so broken. If she had stayed watching any longer, she would have noticed the slight lift of his head, and then the way he had staggered back to his feet, hurt but alive, but by that point Iris had already been in her car and speeding to S.T.A.R. Labs, fearing the worst.

And somehow, although she can't even remember the route she had taken, she'd made it there. She held breath and felt a rushing in her ears as she turned the now familiar corner where she knew that he'd be if he was—if he wasn't—

She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought. But then she rounded the corner and there he was, looking fairly beat-up but awake and alert and _smiling_ at something Cisco was saying, Caitlin just finishing patching him up, and she'd nearly tripped over her feet running over to him.

"_Barry. Allen._" she growled, stopping in front of where he was laying and towering over him, narrowly restraining herself from attacking him with a hug. She leaned down so that her face was inches from his, her breath tickling his cheek.

"Iris, I'm f—" he started, but she cut him off with a kiss. He looked stunned for a moment, but she wasn't stopping there.

"You—are—_so—_lucky—you're—not—dead," she huffed angrily in between more kisses, planting them all over his face, his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, and finally giving him one last, long one on the lips. Before he could deepen it, she pulled back, leaving him blinking in confusion.

She cradled his face in her hands, squishing his cheeks a bit, and glared at him as best she could. An effect that, all things considered, was probably lost when he met her gaze, his eyes bright and excited, and she felt the corners of her lips twitch, desperate to smile.

"Why?" He gave her a cheeky a grin, still a little dazed, "Because you'd kill me if I was?"

"Oh, shut up," she grumbled, playfully punching his shoulder. She didn't mean for it to actually hurt, but she also didn't take into account that he wasn't fully healed yet, and immediately felt guilty for the little moan of pain it elicited. Still, she supposed he more or less deserved it for scaring her like that.

His hand found hers and gripped it tight, and he gave her a shaky smile.

"You're not gonna get rid of me that easily," he laughed, bringing her hand up to his face to brush his lips against her fingers, to kiss the shiny new ring that had taken residence there.

Normally, she'd tease him back, but at the moment she was just too relieved.

"So, Barry," she forced her voice to sound lighthearted, as if heart wasn't still racing in her chest, not yet fully recovered from her panic. "You still up for date night?"

"Wouldn't miss it," he grinned, before looking down at his beat-up body. "But…"

He tried rolling his shoulders, and then his neck, and found that the pain was already subsiding.

"Give me…an hour," he said, before testing out his legs, attempting to stretch them while still laying down, and wincing at the movement. "Wait, scratch that. Give me two. And a half."

Iris ran her fingers through his hair and smiled at him, shaking her head fondly.

"Nah, you need to rest. We can just order take-in tonight. Seriously, take your time, however long you need to heal," she insisted, pulling up a chair from behind her to sit down next to him. "I'm not going anywhere."


	21. Trapped

_**Prompt: "Looks like we'll be trapped for a while…"**_

**xXx**

"Why are you so nervous?" Iris asked, suspicious, as she watched the Flash zipping around and frantically searching for an exit. "We're safe here. Just stuck. We just need to wait until someone shows up to get us out of here—which they will." She pursued her lips thoughtfully and gave him a look of careful consideration as he came to a stop, keeping his distance from her.

"Unless, that is, you've been holding out everyone and you have super-strength or something, too, and you can move all that debris yourself?" she ventured hopefully, tilting her head in thought.

His voice was distorted as usual when he responded, his face a blur, and in the confined space they were in it echoed off the walls and send shivers down her spine.

"No, unfortunately."

"Ah," she sighed, scuffing her shoe on the ground in disappointment. "Didn't think so. Well, looks like we'll be trapped here for a while, then…"

"Looks like it."

Even though it was dark and his face was blurred and slightly turned away from her, she thought she could see him frowning.

"Is that why your nervous? Being trapped?"

"Yeah…" he replied, too distracted to come up with something better. It was half-true, considering he really didn't like confined spaces, but more accurately it would have been 'being trapped here with you'. Not a sentiment he normally applied to Iris, considering he was always more than happy to be in her company, but right now it was really…not ideal.

How was he supposed to keep his secret from her when they were trapped here, when he had nowhere to run, when it could be hours before anyone—and he was banking on Cisco with some new tool that could do some serious heavy-lifting—came to get them out? How was he supposed to keep his face hidden, his voice masked, and not reveal anything when she would be this close, and for so long?

'_Or, you know, you could just tell her. She should know. She deserves to know,' _a little voice pointed out in his head, the rational side of his mind. And _God_, he wanted nothing more than to do just that…but the truth was that he was scared.

Scared that she would hate him when he did, that she wouldn't forgive him for keeping it from her in the first place. He wouldn't blame her, but he didn't want to lose her. He couldn't. And scared that Joe would be angry at him for breaking his promise, too, because he couldn't stand the thought of losing the two most important people in his life.

He knew that she was bound to find out eventually, that Iris was sharp and that even if no one told her she'd figure it out on her own and the longer he put off telling her the deeper the hole he was digging for himself, but he just…couldn't. He was too terrified of losing her, of how she would react.

So much for being brave.

"So," her voice broke through his thoughts, and he nearly lost his footing as he jumped back. He had been so caught up in his worry that he hadn't even noticed when she'd gotten so close. "What should we do to pass the time?"

Barry bit his lip—an action that Iris couldn't see, of course, with his face blurred—mulling over the question. He didn't want to do anything where he'd be in danger of accidentally revealing something about himself, especially considering Iris knew him better than anyone, but at the same time, knowing her, he didn't really see any way around it.

"Oooh, I know!" she said excitedly, clapping her hands together. "Let's play truth or dare. I'll go first. Okay, Mister…Flash—Truth or Dare?"

Barry laughed, the sound echoing eerily around them, and decided that it probably couldn't hurt. He'd just have to be careful.

"Alright, fine, Miss West…," addressing her like that sounded strange on his tongue, but he noticed the way it made her smile. "Dare."

"Alright, I dare you to…" Iris trailed off, thinking, and then her eyes lit up. "I dare you to show me who you are. You know, take off the mask and stop doing that thing with your face."

"Nice try," Barry smirked, shaking his head. "You would've asked me the same thing if I had said truth, wouldn't you?"

"Well," Iris shrugged, "you can't blame a girl for trying."

Barry sighed and brought a hand up to run through his hair—only to remember that his hair was still covered by his suit. He wasn't sure if it was the general stuffiness of the place and of being stuck here or because of his guilt, but suddenly the suit felt tight and uncomfortable. His skin itched and burned underneath it, as though begging for release. Yeah, he thought, looking back at her and the hopeful expression she still wore—that was definitely guilt.

"I…can't. I want to, I really do, but it could—it could put you in danger," he said, hating himself for making excuses. He hung his head and added quietly, "And you'd hate me."

Iris eyed him curiously. Did that mean that he was someone she knew? She filed the information away for later use, wondering what it might mean.

"I doubt that," she said, mustering a smile, and then plowed on with her questions. "You do have to answer a truth now, though, since you avoided my dare."

They went on like that for a long time, an easy back-and-forth banter, occasionally straying from their game or lapsing into a comfortable silence. Not for the first time, Iris was struck by how easy it was to talk to him. It just felt _comfortable_, like she wasn't talking to Central City's superhero but instead to a close friend, even though he evaded most of her questions. It was nice while it lasted, but the thought would make her red in the face with anger when she remembered it later on. (_'Close friend',_ she'd think later, when she could really sit down and think about what she'd discovered. _Fuck you_.)

Unfortunately, having to vibrate his face and his vocal chords for three consecutive hours without any sort of food or energy boost was really starting to take a toll on Barry—or in Iris's eyes, the Flash—and Iris was starting to take notice.

After he failed to respond to her latest question, Iris squinted at him in concern. She couldn't see his face, but judging by the tired slump of his shoulders and his lack of attentiveness, he seemed really…exhausted.

"You alive there, buddy?"

It was strange to her him groan with his voice all distorted.

"More or less…I'm just…I'm feeling…really…ti…red," he said slowly, feeling faint. His tongue felt thick in his mouth and it was hard to speak, let alone continue to disguise his voice, and there was blackness starting to close in around the edges of his vision.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, knowing what was about to happen before it did. Not even three seconds later, the exhaustion swallowed him whole, and he keeled over. The last thing he saw before he lost consciousness was the concern in Iris's eyes, and his last thought was _'I'm sorry'. _He wished he could have said it out loud.

"Oh my God, are you okay?" Iris blurted out, panicked, as she clambered over to the Flash's side. She hadn't really expected a response, seeing as he was lying face-down on the ground and not making any move to get back up, but it still sent another pang of worry through her. She debated what to do—she wanted to respect his identity, but then again his identity wouldn't really matter if he wasn't breathing.

She took a deep breath and rolled him over, feeling for a pulse. He seemed to be okay, just passed out, and—and her heart caught in her throat as her eyes rested on his face. _No._

'_You'd hate me.' _The words replayed themselves in her mind as she pushed his cowl back, revealing the rest of his face, one so familiar that it made her heart ache. _'You'd hate me.'_

She felt the hurt, the disappointment, the anger, the _betrayal_ all welling up in her chest and making her feel fit to burst, making her want to throw up or cry or scream or maybe all three. But what she didn't feel, what she _couldn't _feel, was hate.

"I wish I could, Barry," she said through her teeth, forcing herself to hold it together and pull the mask back over his face as she heard the distant echo of voices somewhere outside, finally coming to get them out.

"I really, really wish I could."


	22. Let Me Ask You a Question

_**Prompt: "Are you flirting with me?"**_

**xXx**

It's not even two seconds after she texts him that he's there, whooshing her up to the rooftop at Jitters. She doesn't even remotely get a chance to finish her coffee.

He pulls back his cowl and puts his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes with concern. He's on full alert and she can tell he's scoping out the area, taking in the scene around him, and then scanning her for injuries.

"Iris, are you okay? I just got your message. Did something happen? Are you hurt? You said it was urgent," he says in a rush, searching her expression. The look on his face when she smiles is priceless.

"_Relax_, Barry—I didn't mean to freak you out. I just needed to see you ASAP for an interview with the Flash. Boss's orders."

Barry lets out the breath he's been holding in and the knot of worry loosens in his chest, knowing she's okay. Then he raises an eyebrow at her in question.

"You do realize you could've just asked me that in person and done it at home, right?"

Iris shakes her head, clicking her tongue in disapproval.

"Oh, come on, Bear, it's all about the atmosphere. This is more…official. Business-like, I don't know. Anyway, are you going to answer my questions or not? If I do this I get to write a front-page spread about whatever I want next week."

"Fine," Barry sighs, defeated, and spreads his hands wide. "Shoot."

"Okay, let's start with the basics. Favorite color?"

Barry groans as Iris looks at him expectantly, pen poised expertly in her hand and pressed up against her notepad, ready to write.

"Iris, you _know_ what my favorite color is. You know what my favorite everything is. In fact, you pretty much already know everything about me. So why are we doing this again?"

Iris taps the pen on notepad impatiently. "_Because_, Barry, it's protocol. Also, this gives you a chance to throw people off your identity. You know, just answer things with something different than what you would actually say or something. Now answer the question, I don't have all day."

"Alright, fine," he says grudgingly, "Um, yellow then."

Iris's eyebrows knit together in confusion.

"But you hate the color yellow," she states matter-of-factly.

"I am literally just doing exactly what you just told me to do, Iris!"

The crease in Iris's forehead smooths out and she gives a little _'ah' _in understanding.

"Right. I did say that. Anyway, moving on…"

She drills him with questions she already knows the answers to for at least half an hour, and then chews on her pen thoughtfully before asking her next question.

"So, Flash, how's it like moving around in that suit? Comfortable? Uncomfortable? It's got to serve more of a purpose than just being tight to show to off your ass. Which is very nice, by the way. I enjoy it."

Barry laughs and jumps out of the way as Iris gets closer and attempts to grab his butt.

"_Iris West,_ I am shocked. Are you flirting with me? During an _interview_? That's unprofessional."

She huffs and sticks her tongue out at him, jotting something down on her notepad. Probably making something up, Barry figures.

"Hey, that was off the record. Besides, everyone can already see that you have a cute butt. I don't need to tell them that."

Barry rolls his eyes and motions for her to continue. "Alright, hurry up, I'm hungry and I was just on my way home to make dinner when you insisted I come here. Anything else you need to know?"

"Just one more thing," Iris says with a mischievous glint in her eye, laying a hand on Barry's chest. "Would the Flash be interested in engaging in some kinky roof-top sex with Central City's most talented and gorgeous journalist before taking her home for dinner?"

"I don't know," Barry says with a smirk as Iris presses up against him, "I don't think my wife would approve."

Iris waves a hand in dismissal, the lights of the busy city around them glinting off of her ring, and scoffs, guiding Barry's face down closer to hers.

"She doesn't have to find out," she whispers in his ear, and even after all this time being together, it still sends shivers down Barry's spine. "Besides, she's forgiven you before." Iris pauses to smile, her lips curling against Barry's skin. "You're really lucky to have her."

"Yeah," Barry breathes as Iris kisses his neck, "I am."


	23. Happy Endings

_**Prompt: librarian/avid reader au**_

**xXx**

"Hey, Laurel. Big paper due soon?"

"Yeah," she sighed, peeking at Iris from behind the tower of books piled high in her arms before dumping them on the desk before her. She ran tired hand through her hair and huffed. "This class is going to kill me. Actually, this whole pre-law thing is going to kill me. Legal research is _hard_."

"I have faith in you," Iris supplied with an encouraging grin, gathering the books in her arms to put them on the cart behind her with everything that needed to be returned to the shelves. "If anyone can get it done it's you. And then before you know it you're going to be kicking ass in court."

Laurel smiled appreciatively at her. "Thanks, Iris," she said before bidding her goodbye. As Iris watched her go, she knew without having to check the time that closing hours were drawing near.

She liked being a work-study at the library. As as an English major, it definitely looked good for her resume, and it left her plenty of time to do school work on the side when she was working the main desk. It wasn't too demanding, and she got to be surrounded by books and the atmosphere she loved. Most of all though, she liked the people-watching.

She got to know people even if they didn't know her, the ones who would be frantically flipping through books and printing things out an hour before class and weren't ever in here for anything else, the ones who occasionally came and went in groups for projects and meetings, and then the regulars. The people who, like her, were in here all the time, poring over their notes and writing papers, doing research or just trying to get things done. She usually worked the late-shift, so she was acquainted with the late-night regulars, the ones who regularly worked themselves in to the A.M.

Laurel was a regular, always in the library with her stacks of books and writing some paper or another, or doing extensive research. She was one of the ones who smiled back when Iris smiled at her, who always stopped for small talk and who Iris had gotten to know pretty well through the snapshots of her life she'd been given through their conversations. Captain of the kick-boxing team, head of her sorority, and aspiring law student.

It made Iris's head spin wondering how she possibly found the time to balance all of that, let alone have so much figured out about her future already. She wished she could say the same. It was, she conceded, probably the reason that Laurel was always in here so late, though. And now that Laurel had left, she knew it must be getting close to closing time, since she almost always stayed till the very end.

She scanned the area for other regulars, or any other poor soul who had obviously left an assignment off to the last minute and was struggling to get it done.

Mostly everyone had left already—even Felicity, the ever-studious computer science major. Linda, her fellow aspiring journalist and co-worker was still there, gave her a wave as she caught her eye. Iris waved back and pointed to her wrist, to the non-existent watch there, and Linda nodded in understanding, making her way over to Iris to help start closing up.

As Linda approached the front desk, Iris continued her search, until her eyes finally fell upon someone squished in the couch in the furthest corner of the library, almost like he didn't wanted to be seen, like he was trying to melt right into it. Iris supposed that if he was, he was pretty successful about it, because she certainly hadn't noticed him on her first sweep of the place. Still, she knew who he was. Or at least, she knew his name. The Allen kid—Barry—, she thought to herself.

She thought she might have had a class with him once, freshman year, although she honestly wasn't entirely sure. He had a habit of that—of trying to make himself invisible, of fading into the background, of keeping to himself—she'd noticed it just from watching him whenever he was in here. He was a regular too, in fact probably the most frequent and late-night visitor of them all, and yet Iris still hadn't quite figured him out.

He was cute, she mused, as she watched him with his face buried in the book he was reading, his glasses perched precariously on the tip of his nose. He didn't usually smile back when Iris smiled at him, when he'd drop off the books he'd borrowed at the end of the day or when he'd request to take one out, which was usually Iris's tell-tale way of sorting out the regulars she liked, and the ones she didn't. But his case was a little different.

She supposed that for him, it wasn't really because he was trying to be unfriendly, but probably more due to the fact that whenever she smiled at him, he'd blush and look down at his feet and nearly trip over nothing as he'd walk away, only to forget that he hadn't yet picked up the book he'd asked for or was still carrying the one he meant to drop off and have to turn right back around. She had to admit, it was pretty adorable. Dorky, but adorable.

Suddenly he looked up, as though he could feel someone's eyes on him, and caught her gaze. She gave him a small smile and a little wave, a little embarrassed but overall unapologetic at being caught in the act, and he ducked his head down again, so fast his glasses slipped right off of his nose. Iris covered her mouth to stifle her giggling—even from so far away she could tell he was red as he scrambled to pick them up from the ground.

"Hey, Iris," Linda greeted her as she finally reached her. "I'll round up everything from the stragglers. You don't have to stay."

Iris tore her eyes away from the Allen kid and considered this for a moment, a strange and sudden urge hitting her, along with a spark of confidence.

"Nah, it's fine—I'll close up tonight, okay?"

Linda eyed her curiously but didn't complain. "Okay, if you're sure. I'll see you tomorrow, then!" She snatched up her bag from behind the counter and waved goodbye.

Iris waited until Linda was well out the door, and until just two minutes to midnight, to start making her rounds. She deliberately left Allen, still nestled away in the corner and completely unaware of what was going on around him, for last. She collected books and documentaries and the like—the rule was that while the first floor of the library was technically open 24 hours a day for anyone looking for a place to study and focus, everything owned by the library and all the materials being borrowed had to be returned by midnight. That's when her shift ended, and whoever was left in the library was, for the most part, left to their own devices. Some stayed, some didn't.

And then when everyone else was taken care of, she approached him, clearing her throat loudly. He was so absorbed in his reading that he didn't seem to hear her at first, so she got a little closer before trying again.

"Uh, hello. Excuse me. Hey, _excuse me._"

He jumped and nearly dropped his book when he finally looked up to see her standing there before him, and rubbed the back of his neck in embarrassment.

"Sorry, sorry—I didn't hear you, I'm really—"

"Sorry, I know," Iris laughed. "Don't worry about it. I'm just making rounds, before we close up—do you have anything that belongs to the library?"

"Yeah," he waved the book in his hand around. "But is there any way I could, I don't know, reserve this one for tomorrow? Like, put it off to the side so that it'll already be there when I come in?"

"Of course. Just hand it to me and I'll set it aside for you behind the counter, in our back room." She held out her hand expectantly, urging him to hand it over. And then nearly had a heart attack at what he did next.

"_What_ do you think you're doing?"

He froze, his hand on the page, just as he was folding the corner over and smoothing it down to mark his spot. "I, uh…I'm sorry?"

"You should be," Iris huffed with narrowed eyes, snatching the book from him. "Dog-earing pages, honestly. That's library property you're messing with, mister. You _need _to get yourself a proper bookmark."

She was only half-kidding—she took the treatment of her books very seriously—but she also couldn't help messing with him. It felt weirdly normal to tease him, like even though she didn't really know him he already felt like a friend, like it just felt right. Natural. Besides, red was a good color on him, she thought, amused, as she watched him blush again.

"Oh, uh, sorry about that…" he shrugged and grinned sheepishly at her, and she noted that it was probably the first time she had truly seen him smile. She almost felt offended that he'd been holding out on her so long—it was such a nice one.

She could have just left it at that, just taken the book and left, but something compelled her to stay. With another wave of confidence she plopped down in the seat next to him, suppressing a grin at his startled expression. She turned the book over in her hands to read the title, raising an eyebrow in question as she did.

"_The Science Behind Time Travel—A Look into the Future" _she read aloud, and turned to look at him curiously. "Interesting choice. Is this for a class or something…?"

"Oh, uh, no," he stammered. "No, this is just…reading for fun, I guess. And…educational purposes."

Iris hefted the heavy book in her hand and scoffed. "This is reading for fun? Seriously? This thing is huge—how do you even have the time?"

He smiled to himself, amused, almost like he knew something she didn't, like he was in on some sort of secret. "I'm a fast reader, I guess."

"Hmm. Alright, well, I'm interested, Barry—" he didn't ask how she knew his name—it was a small campus, everyone knew everyone, even if they didn't actually _know _them. Especially someone as whispered about as Barry Allen, who did his best to go unnoticed but who couldn't really escape all the rumors about his family, about what had happened. "—why are you so into this stuff? I'm curious. I've seen some of the other books you've taken out before, all stuff about the impossible. And science. Which seems a weird combination to me, but still. I'm interested."

It felt tacky to say _'I'm interested in you'_, even though that was what she really meant. He was a puzzle. Iris loved puzzles, and mysteries, and she was determined to figure him out. Plus, he _was_ cute, so that didn't hurt either. She looked at him expectantly, genuinely interested in his answer.

"You'll make fun of me."

"No, I won't. Promise," she said, and she meant it.

"Okay…" he sucked in a deep breath, and then started to explain. And then continued to explain. And explain, and explain.

Which is how she spent a large portion of her night learning about a lot things she'd probably never need to know about, science she didn't really understand, and in the company of a hyper-enthusiastic Barry Allen.

She knew beforehand that he must have been passionate about the subject, but she hadn't realized he was_ that_ passionate. If anything, though, it was endearing. She could watch him rant, the way his eyes lit up and the exaggerated gestures he made and the smile that never left his face, all day. But at some point, he stopped himself, turning red again in embarrassment.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry. I get a little carried away sometimes. I must be boring you to death."

"Not at all," Iris said truthfully, giving him a reassuring smile. "I mean, I'm not gonna lie, I might not have followed everything you were saying, but it sounded interesting enough."

He let out a breath of relief, and smiled nervously at her. "So, what about you? It's Iris, right? I only know that because you work here and—I'm not trying to be creepy, I promise, it's just—"

"Relax," she laughed. "Yeah, it's Iris. And if you're creepy for knowing that, then so am I, considering I knew your name too."

"Oh, right," he laughed. "I forgot. Well…Iris, what kind of stuff are you interested in? You let me ramble on all that time about me, but I still don't know anything about you."

"Well, I'm glad you asked," she grinned, and launched right in. Barry wasn't the only one who could get a bit over-excited. Iris was probably equally as passionate, just about different things. Her journalism classes, her work for the school newspaper, the slam poetry club she ran and the competitions she did on the side. It was refreshing to talk so unabashedly about the things she loved and know that he wasn't judging her.

They talked for a long time, going back and forth like good friends. It was almost eerie how much it felt like she already knew him, but if it meant that they were friends now, that she was one step closer to figuring it out, she was more than happy to accept it. Finally, she admitted to herself that it was probably time to leave—she at least wanted to get a few hours of sleep in before her morning class—and they parted ways.

He was back the next night, as usual, but this time when he approached the front desk to ask for his book, there was a noticeable change from his usual self-conscious mumbling and awkward shuffle. For one, he actually met her gaze, and when she smiled at him he didn't look away. He still blushed, sure, but he smiled happily back with a familiar-feeling _'Hi, Iris.' _She liked the way he said her name.

As she fetched the book he had on reserve from the night before, an idea suddenly struck her. She paused in the back room to scour the shelves until she found what she was looking for. She ripped off a pink post-it note from the stack, smirking to herself, and took the pen from behind her ear, twirling it in her fingers before jotting something down. She read it over, scrunched up her nose in distaste, and wrote another. And another. And another.

It took her at least five tries before she deemed the note worthy, crumpling up her last failed attempt in her palm (she had decided it was probably better off to start with a smiley face instead of a heart, and then she'd decided that maybe she'd try her luck with a winky face, and then she'd changed her mind _again _and decided that was probably too much…or was it? She'd gone back and forth between the two for a while before finally making up her mind—and in the end smiley face it was.)

She opened the book up to the page he had dog-eared, and stuck the note in, reading it over one last time before smiling to herself.

'_Wanna meet up for coffee sometime? :)'_

"Here you go," she said, walking back to the desk and handing the book to him. "By the way," she added before he could walk away, "I left something in there for you. You can even use it a bookmark, from now on, so I better not see you dog-earing any more pages."

"Yes ma'am," he laughed, before making his way over to his usual spot in the corner of the room.

Iris felt her heart pounding in her chest, wondering if she was crossing a line, if she was acting too soon. She resolutely kept her gaze away from Barry's corner, refused to let herself look at him during her usual sweeps of the place throughout the night, too nervous of what his reaction would be.

And then when it came time to collect everything as usual, she purposefully left him for last again—although she had a feeling he was hovering around, waiting for her anyway.

"Hi," she said, announcing her presence. She plopped down next to him again, trying to act casual. As though she wasn't sort of freaking out.

"Hi," he said with a wide smile, looking almost as excited as he had the night before. And yet, he didn't bring up the note. Iris wasn't about to do it herself—she'd already made that leap—so instead they talked again, their conversation feeling just as comfortable as the night before. Aside from the fact that he still hadn't given her an answer, and it was still hanging agonizingly over her head.

This time, when she made to leave, it was with a bit of frustration, and confusion, and hurt. She wondered why he hadn't even at least _mentioned_ it—but then his hand caught her arm, and she paused.

"Wait—I have something for you."

"A book?" Iris asked, a little thrown off, as he handed her a tattered, worn-down looking thing.

He nodded. "I, uh—well, there were some passages in there I thought you might like. You know, you were talking about how much you liked free-verse and stuff, so I figured I'd show you some other good ones—my favorites."

"I wouldn't have pegged you as a poetry kind of guy," Iris mused thoughtfully, flipping through the book and forcing herself not to be too obvious in her excitement when a flash of pink caught her eye. "I thought you were all into science and logic and all that jazz."

He grinned at her. "Hey, just because I like science doesn't mean I can't appreciate the arts. Besides, I read books about the physics of time travel and mysterious, unexplained events—clearly I'm not all about logic."

"Fair enough," Iris nodded, taking the book from him and smiling at the little pink post-it peeking out from between the pages. It took all her will-power not to take it out and read it right there. She surprised him with a quick hug before picking up her bag and flashing him a smile, pleased to see that even though he was getting more comfortable around her, it still left him looking frazzled.

"Thanks for this. I'll see you later, Barry!"

"Yeah…" he sighed happily, "yeah, see you later."

She forced herself to wait until she was settled back in her dorm to take the note out, careful not to lose the page. She let out a burst of laughter as she read it, at the fact that she'd let herself get so worked up over it. Over one freaking word.

'_Sure :)'_

Beneath the word were the clear remnants of things he had written and erased and rewritten and then erased again, all in handwriting even messier than hers. She could make out the faint imprint of _'I'd love to!' _and _'Sounds great.' _and _'Definitely! :)'_ and then all the exclamation points that had been added and erased, added and erased. She laughed to herself, a weight lifting from her chest, her spirits soaring. Clearly she wasn't the only one worried about seeming over-eager. She wondered just how long it had taken Barry to arrive at that one simple word.

It went on like that for a while—the two of them exchanging books, recommending things to each other, and along with them the notes. Pink-post it notes, always—for some reason the color just stuck. All with varying little messages to each other, sometimes things they were too nervous to say out loud, sometimes just one-worded little messages.

She was surprised at herself, surprised at how much she liked Barry. It must have been a whole damn lot, she mused, if she was willing to read books about science for him. Somewhere down the line Iris's coffee proposition had gotten lost—but they talked pretty frequently after closing hours, anyway, so it wasn't such a huge deal. Except that she wished she could see him outside of the library, too. Somehow it would make it all feel more…real.

"I can't believe you've never read _Atonement_. Every high school senior English class has read _Atonement_!" Iris exclaimed one day as they were talking.

"Well, I guess mine didn't," Barry shrugged, holding his hands up innocently.

"Hmph. Lucky for you, I'm pretty sure we have a copy here somewhere. I'll give it to you before you leave—and you _have_ to read it. Trust me, you'll love it—it's one of my favorites."

She figured no one would notice if one book was missing from the library that night, if she lent it out for him to take with him. She was breaking the rules, sure…but was for a worthy cause. She stuck her note on the cover this time—_Enjoy, nerd_—and pushed it into his hands before letting him leave.

"I finished," he gestured to the book in his hand when she approached him the next day. For the most part, Iris had gotten used to his bizarrely fast reading abilities, but it still threw her off sometimes. Then again, it had only taken her two days to finish when she'd first read it—she hadn't been able to put it down—so maybe it wasn't all that surprising after all.

"So, did you love it, or did you love it?"

Barry glared at her and handed the book back over as if it had burned him.

"I hated it."

Iris blinked, taken aback. "What? Why? It's so beautifully written!"

"Well, yeah, it's well-written," he conceded, "but Robbie and Cecilia die! They don't get to see each other again, they don't end up together like they're supposed to…and the worst part is that it leads you to believe that they do at first but they don't _actually _do and then it just…it's all wrong! They're whole lives get torn apart!"

He waved his arms around passionately as he explained—Barry had a habit of talking with his hands—and his voice got steadily louder as he ranted.

"Barry, calm down, and keep your voice down," Iris shushed. It was earlier than their usual talks, and there were still some other stragglers in the library, eyeing them disapprovingly. "That's the whole point, you know? Star-crossed lovers and all. It's such a great tragedy."

Barry pouted, unimpressed. "I don't like tragedies. I don't like it when there's no happy ending. Real life already sucks enough, you know?"

Iris opened her mouth to argue, but then she caught the look on his face, eyes fixed on the ground, his expression genuinely upset. And then it hit her. She didn't know the details, exactly, she still hadn't asked, but she'd heard stories. Vague stories, gossip about something that had happened to his family a long time ago. From the whispers she heard whenever his name was brought up, it must have been a really, really bad thing. Remembering it now, she figured It was probably why he kept so much to himself in the first place. She didn't want to pry, but she thought she understood why he might be so against tragedies, having to deal with such a big one firsthand.

"Yeah, I get you. The whole escapism part of it all. That makes sense," she allowed, laying her hand over top his. He smiled gratefully at her, not bothering to ask how she knew, or what she knew—just grateful that she did. As she glanced at the time on her phone and resolved that she needed to be leaving again soon, another thought wormed its way into her mind and stuck there.

"Speaking of happy endings!" she chirped, pulling out a pen and a little pink post-it notepad from her bag and scribbling something on it. She ripped it off with gusto and stuck it to his chest, smoothing it down and letting her hand linger there just a little longer than necessary. He blinked at her in surprise before peeling it off and bringing it up to his face, squinting to read her messy handwriting. She brought a hand up to her mouth to cover her smile, determined not to show it until she watched him break out into a grin of his own. She wanted to be sure.

'_609-845-5555—Still up for that coffee? ;)'_

"Call me tomorrow," she said, laughing at his delighted expression and his goofy smile as she got up to leave. "And maybe we can have our own."


	24. Guardian Angel

_**Prompt: I'm you're guardian angel who's been breaking the rules and keeping you alive longer than you should be and as punishment I have to watch you die.**_** (WARNING: major character death)**

**xXx**

Saving her isn't the only rule he breaks. He breaks a lot, actually, when it comes to her, although it is the first one.

He was created to be there for her, so he resolves to be there for her. He's just an abstract concept, really, nothing solid, nothing real, until the first time that she needs him.

It's right after her mom leaves, and there's this hole in her family and a loneliness in her that her dad alone can't quite fill, not yet, no matter how hard he tries. She spends most of her days crying when he's away at work, or when no one else is looking—or so she thinks, at least.

So he appears to her first as a little boy right around her age—her imaginary friend, she calls him. That's what she needs him to be, so that's what he is. She names him, too, gives him a watery grin one day when he's talked her down from a panic attack and says _'Barry. That's what I'm gonna call you. I've always wanted a friend named Barry.'_

There's nothing else he can think to do but just nod and accept it. He doesn't know why, he's not supposed to have a name, but somehow it seems to fit. And he'd be lying if he said he didn't like it.

He'll confess that the first time he saves her, it's for selfish reasons. He likes talking to her, he likes being around her, but he only exists because she does. Once she's gone, he will be too. He's already been told that she's not meant to survive, that her life is supposed to be a short one. He's not supposed to mess with a deadline that's already been set. But he's not quite ready to go yet, and if she does, he does, so he doesn't listen.

Anyway, what's the point of a guardian angel if they can't save the one they're made to protect?

He swoops in and grabs her out of the line of the car that's barreling her way when she chases her ball into the street, unaware, and deposits her safely back on the side of the road. He doesn't stay long enough for her to see him with his wings out, but he watches from afar as her startled gaze follows the car that had been so close to hitting her as it speeds past, as she turns her face up to the sky and smiles, whispering _'thank you, Barry.'_

He holds on to that later, when he's being reprimanded, when they're sneering at him, outraged, drilling the rules into his head again, telling him this will come back to get him, in the end. He still doesn't regret it.

xXx

The second rule he breaks is that he lets her touch him.

He's keeping her company one day while her father is at work and she's all alone, just a scared and sad little girl in a house that must feel so empty, and that's when she asks him. They're having a tea party with some of her stuffed animals when she gets a look in her eye, a sparkle that takes him off guard, and she tilts her head curiously.

"What do they look like?" she asks, and it takes him a moment to realize what she's talking about. "Your wings. I know you have them. It's how you saved me. Can I see them?"

He knows he shouldn't, he's not supposed to, but she seems so excited, and she doesn't really know that he's real, anyway—or at least she won't later—so he decides it can't hurt too much. So he lets her see.

She gasps and reaches over to him, holding a hand out and then hesitating, throwing him a questioning look. _Is this okay? _her eyes seem to ask. He should move away. He should shy away from her touch. He should shake his head no. He doesn't.

He nods and she takes it as a _go ahead_, and her fingers brush his wings carefully, gently, softly. She smiles to herself and then at him, the light in her eyes making something that's not exactly unpleasant squirm inside of him.

"They're beautiful," she says, beaming at him. "You're beautiful. My beautiful Barry."

He likes the way that sounds. And, likewise, it's the first time starts to think of her as Iris—his Iris, too—instead of just his charge. The muscles in his face feel strange as he tries to mimic her expression, and yet he finds it's not too hard to smile back when she's looking at him like that and he's echoing her words, thinking '_my beautiful Iris_.'

xXx

The third is that he interferes.

When she gets too old for an imaginary friend, he has no choice but to leave her be. But after a while he misses her too much, and he wonders if she misses him too, so he starts to visit her in her dreams. He knows it's wrong. He knows it's against the rules. But he needs to see her, anyway. And they talk, and she smiles, and he can touch her even though it's only in her head and in a way it's even better than how it used to be, for a little while at least.

And then one day he sees her kissing her first serious boyfriend, and he's forced to watch with every single, agonizing second as she falls further in love with someone else, and there's a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach and a bitter taste on his tongue and it makes him feel…well, it makes him _feel._And therein lies the problem. She smiles that beautiful smile of hers, only it's not for him anymore, and he feels. Jealousy. Disappointment. Frustration. Sadness. Most of all, longing.

So he starts popping up again, whenever she needs someone. The friendly stranger on the train, offering her comfort when she needs a shoulder to lean on. The person at the coffee shop who makes her her favorite drink, and gives it to her for free when she's having a rough day. The outside source who slips her the information she's missing when she's struggling to finish an article she's been working on.

And, this time for less selfish reasons—although maybe selfish in a different way, if he's being honest—the person who saves her. When she somehow lands herself in a hostage situation, when she nearly gets into a car accident that would have left her paralyzed, if not dead, when she nearly chokes to death on a cronut one morning.

He knows it's bound to get him in trouble, that there's a reason she's so accident prone, that he's helped her survive far past her time, but he can't stop. He's whoever she needs him to be again, and even though he wears a new face each time she sees him sometimes she'll get that light in her eye again, sometimes she'll smile at him like she recognizes him, like she knows him, and he thinks that maybe, just maybe, she does. And that makes it all worth it.

xXx

The fourth is that he loves her. He's not supposed to feel love. He's not supposed to_ feel _anything.

He begs and he pleads for them to make him human, to let him be with her. If he really does exist because of her, for her, then this is what he feels like he's meant for. Not just to protect her, not just to guide her, but _to be with her_. Maybe he was made to love her, he says. Maybe he's different. Maybe it was meant to be this way. They don't listen.

And then one day they hold him down, they make him watch as she snoops around a crime scene she's not meant to be at, trying to get a few juicy details and collect evidence for her article. It's after hours, so the place is empty, and she looks left and right before ducking under the yellow crime scene tape and taking in what's before her. He's supposes he's not the only one who's got a tendency for breaking the rules.

He resists the urge to call out to her, to tell her to run away, because he knows she won't hear him and he knows it will only anger the one's keeping him here even further, but it's hard when he can tell that she doesn't see the man who's lying in wait for her and all he can feel is dread. She doesn't even have time to look surprised before he shoots her, looks around to make sure no one is around to see, and then leaves. Just _leaves _her there. Broken and bleeding and dying, crumpled on the floor. They don't let Barry go to her until they're sure it's too late.

To anyone else it will probably look like she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like some unfortunate tragedy. That it was always just a danger of the job, of investigating and reporting on dangerous topics, on looking into things people wanted covered up. He knows better. He knows that this was staged. Planned out from the second he messed with her first death date, and because of his actions ever since.

She's bleeding out by the time he reaches her, the pool of red around her soaking through his jeans as he kneels down next to her. "No," he croaks, gathering her into his arms. It feels strange—it's the first time he's used this voice in a while. Since he's even spoken out loud. "No, no, no, no, please…_please_…"

"Barry…" she whispers, and he notices the flicker of recognition in her eyes. She's looking at him, and she's seeing him, really seeing him. He holds her head up, his hand tangled in her hair, and strokes her cheek with his thumb, his touch light as a feather. She smiles weakly and coughs up blood when she tries to speak again. It stains her lips like some sick impression of the lipstick she always wears. "Beautiful Barry…"

He can pinpoint the moment she stops seeing anything at all.

He sobs and holds her close, tight against his chest, refusing to believe it. Desperate to feel the warmth from her skin and the reassuring beat of her heart, desperate to believe she's not dead. He gets neither. Already, she feels cold, and not because the blood has cooled in her veins or because the heat has left her body yet, but because he knows her life has already slipped away, and there's no getting it back. And her heart isn't beating.

Just like that, he feels the light die inside of him. He feels the wings molt from his back as his breathing becomes labored—since when has he ever even had to breathe?— and a strange and foreign wetness fills his eyes. The loss of his wings should make him feel lighter, like shedding a weight he's been keen to be free of for so long now, but instead all he feels is the crushing heaviness that sits on his chest, that weighs him down and tethers him here with her blood staining his hands that are shaking now like he never knew they could and her body limp in his arms and how could he have ever wanted to have this physical, beating heart when it hurts so god damned much, when it's aching and throbbing and he wants to throw up and _oh God_—

He knows that they're mocking him. Finally granting him his wish, finally allowing him to be mortal, all he's ever wanted so that he could be with her. So that he could stay with her, be human, someone that she could love. Someone that she could spend the rest of her life with. So that he could grow old by her side.

And then taking away his reason for all of that, violently ripping it away from him, and making him stay. Breaking the rules for him just like he's broken all the rest, except they know that this time he doesn't want them broken, that he doesn't want to be able to keep on existing after her.

It's the ultimate punishment. For saving her. For _loving_ her. Forcing him to live on this Earth, to exist in a world where his _reason_ for existence no longer does._What's the fucking point of a guardian angel if they can't save the one they're made to protect?_ He guesses he has his answer. There is none.

First he sees black. Nothing but darkness clouds his vision—a darkness signifying a black future, a black horizon, the gaping hole in his chest and the darkness that's filling his heart, that's eating away at his soul, that's threatening to take him over. He sucks in a deep, trembling breath, and stops fighting. He lets it.

And then he sees red. Red like rage and anger he's never experienced before, because all he's really ever known before this is love, and now that's gone. _And someone needs to pay for this. _He clenches his fists so tightly, so forcefully, that the nails digging into his palms draw blood, sticky and wet and foreign on his hands and red, red, red like everything else. Yes, someone needs to pay for this. He feels something snap inside him as he steels his resolve.

_Someone is going to pay._


	25. Your Biggest Fan

_**Prompt: celebrity/fan au**_

**xXx**

"Barry. Uh, Barry, you might want to look over there, to the left of the screen. Bottom corner."

"Not now, Cisco," Barry hisses, absentmindedly waving a hand in his face to shush him. "I'm busy."

"Yeah, but—"

"Look, there she is!" he claps his hands together, and his face lights up in excitement. "Oh my God, she looks so beautiful. I mean, not that she doesn't always look beautiful, but look at that _dress_, Cisco! How can someone be so pretty and so talented all at once? If she doesn't win tonight I swear I—"

"_Dude_. I get that you're completely smitten with this actress and all and honestly I can see why, but you need to shut up and listen to me right now because Snart and his evil buddies are literally _right there_."

Cisco stomps over to the TV in frustration and jabs a finger towards the bottom corner, towards a group of people standing in the crowd, looking fairly conspicuous with their bulky jackets and the weapons peeking out from underneath.

Barry squints at the screen, and sure enough, it's them. He throws his hands up in exasperation. Of all the times they could have chosen to show up again, they picked now? Seriously?

"You have got to be kidding me. How the hell did they even get through security? That place has to have security, right?"

"My guess is that it has something to do with the fact that they all have very dangerous weapons that I'm sure can be used as a pretty effective means of manipulation. Or convincing, or whatever. But anyway—why are you still here? What are you waiting for?"

"Right," Barry sighs, throwing one last mournful glance towards the TV, where Iris West, his favorite actress (and probably the biggest crush he's ever had) is still being interviewed, and a second later he's blasting out the door.

By the time he gets there, Cold is holding open a bag, goading the well-dressed and accessorized celebrities to give up their expensive trinkets, as well as any money they have on them, and Rory and is waving his gun around menacingly, keeping everyone scared and subdued, and the other Snart, Lisa, is pointing her gun at some of the nominees.

"Why don't I just turn you all into gold instead? Then it won't matter who goes home with one of those glittery little statues tonight—you'll all be awards yourselves," she laughs, delighted at own joke. Barry rolls his eyes. It was bad enough having one Snart who was obsessed with making bad puns—now he has to put up with two.

He rounds them all up and drops them off one by one in some remote and far-away place, somewhere he's sure they won't be finding their way back from any time soon. He doesn't have the time or the energy to deal with them properly right now.

He stops back at the Awards Ceremony to make sure everything is under control one last time, to return the bag of money and jewelry that had been collected and stolen, and to make sure no one is hurt. And also to get a glimpse of a certain celebrity firsthand, if he's being honest. Everyone seems fine, just shaken up—and then he spots her. She's standing all alone, looking fairly rattled but otherwise unharmed, and for once she's not being swarmed by paparazzi and reporters. An idea suddenly strikes him—one he's not entirely proud of, but this is his only chance. He's so, so close…he can't just pass this opportunity up.

So he glances left and right before he sweeps her off her feet and carries her to the rooftop of a nearby building before she even has time to look surprised, and then he deposits her across from him, keeping a good distance between them, all in the time it takes her to blink.

"Barry? Are you there?" Cisco's voice fills his ear as soon as he stops moving.

"Yeah, Cisco. Everything's okay. They're all taken care of. I, uh, I gotta go."

Before Cisco can even respond, he turns off his earpiece. He doesn't want his friend to overhear this conversation—the teasing would be relentless if he did. It's already enough he'll be embarrassing himself beyond belief; he doesn't need the constant reminder from someone else. He glances towards his flustered guest, sucking in a deep breath.

She's even more beautiful in person, if that's even possible. He honestly didn't think that could ever be possible, because he's seen everything she's been in, and he's watched every interview, and she's always so fucking beautiful but now she's standing here across from him, _in the flesh_, and he's honestly trying hard not to pass out. _W-o-w._

"Oh my God. You're…you're…I…" she stutters, shaking her head in amazement.

Her eyes are huge as she looks him up and down, mouth hanging open in a startled little 'o' of surprise, and he mistakes the expression on her face for fear. He holds up his hands and takes a tentative step toward her, desperate to show her that he means no harm.

"Hi. Um, I'm sorry to bring you here, but I promise I'll have you back in no time, before the ceremony starts and stuff, it's just—I'm a huge fan of your work. Like, your acting is amazing and all of the charity work you do is amazing and you're amazing and—" he cuts himself off before he can start to ramble further—because he could honestly ramble all day—and takes a deep breath to steady himself. Except it's _really_ _hard_ to be calm about anything when he's standing less than ten feet away from _Iris fucking West_.

"Uh, what I'm trying to say is…can I have your autograph?" he asks nervously, silently cringing the second the request leaves his mouth. She regards him with wide eyes for a moment before bursting out into laughter, and at first he's so embarrassed he considers running away right then and there and not looking back, putting as much distance as he possibly can between them. But he's a big enough adult to admit to himself that he's willing to sacrifice his dignity for this. He _really _wants that autograph.

She wipes at her eyes and grins at him, and his stomach clenches with dread and anticipation, afraid of what she might say, or that she'll make fun of him.

"I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at you, I promise," she says, and Barry is hit with relief that's almost immediately replaced with confusion. She hastens to explain. "It's just…I was actually about to ask you the same thing."

"Oh," he blinks, taken aback. "Um. Really? Why?"

She laughs again, only this time it's more out of disbelief than anything. "'_Why?'_Are you serious? You're a real-life _superhero_. You've saved so many people. I've been following everything in the news since the moment you popped up and started making this city a safer place, you know, I even have a blog about y—I mean, forget I just said that last part. But yeah, you're like…an inspiration."

Her eyes light up when she talks about him the same way his do when he's gushing about her, and he honestly can't even believe that this is real, that this is happening right now. His inspiration thinks he's inspirational? His face is starting to hurt from how big he's smiling.

"Oh, wow, thanks. That means a lot, to hear you say that." And it does—he can't remember the last time he's felt so touched. "I guess we could do a trade off then? Uh, do you have a pen?"

She bites her lip and rummages through her little purse for a moment, coming up empty. "Nope," she says, making a little popping noise on the 'p'. "Do you?"

He raises an eyebrow at her, gesturing to himself, to his skin-tight suit. "Does it really look like I have anywhere to put a pen in this thing?"

She grins sheepishly at him. "Okay, sorry. Stupid question. So I'm guessing no paper either, then…?"

He shakes his head no, but then he remembers that he has the convenient little advantage of super-speed, and a city is full of people with pens and paper. He raises a finger as the idea occurs to him. "Wait right here," he says, as though there's anywhere she could go in the first place. He's back two seconds later, and he hands her the pen he's just plucked from an innocent reporter's hand, silently vowing to return it later as he rips the piece of paper he's found in half and gives her a piece.

He watches her scribble something down and nearly faints when she brings it up to her lips to kiss it, winking it him as she hands it back over, along with the pen.

"Your turn," she quips, and he can't stop smiling as he reads her note—_'Thank you for everything you do for this city! Much love, Iris West'_— and the red mark from her lipstick underneath it. In fact his mind is so clouded with excitement and giddiness, hung up on that little phrase _'much love'_, that he's honestly not paying much attention when he writes down his name on his piece of paper. And then he's so distracted by her smile that he doesn't even look at it before he hands it over to her, doesn't realize that when he wrote down his name he wrote down _his name_.

She squints at the paper, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion. She looks up at him, then down at the paper again, then back at him. "Um. Who's Barry Allen…?"

She watches as his eyes go wide in horror, as he realizes his slip-up much too late, and comprehension slowly dawns in her expression.

"Oh. _Oh._"

"Oh my God….Oooooh my_ Goood_…I can't believe I really just….Oh my God, please don't…_fuck_, please don't tell anyone," he groans, dragging a hand down his face.

"Relax, I won't. I promise," she soothes, placating, as she tucks the piece of paper safely away in her purse. He thinks she sounds sincere, and it must be something in her eyes, too, because he trusts her. "But can I just…" she trails off, squinting at him, trying to get a better look at his face. She starts to take small steps toward him, tilting her head at him in curiosity.

Finally, she gets close enough that there's barely any space left in between them, and he lets her, heart beating so fast he's afraid it might explode. She reaches a hand up and he realizes what she's doing, and he could very easily move away in time, but he doesn't even try. He lets her push his cowl and his mask back and get a good look at his face. She already knows his name, so he figures it doesn't really make a difference anyway. He ignores the voice in his head—one that sounds unsurprisingly like Caitlin—that's scolding him for being so irresponsible.

"You're cute, Barry."

She grins at him, and he feels his face redden, feels the words get caught in his throat as he struggles to come up with some clever response, as he wishes he could breathe long enough to tell her how gorgeous she looks too, but his mind is sort of short-circuiting and his thoughts are sort of slipping through his fingers because Iris West, literal movie-star and model material Iris West, thinks that he's cute. The most beautiful girl in the world thinks that he, Barry Allen, is acceptably attractive. How has he not passed out yet, again?

"You know, we're allowed to bring a plus one to the after-party tonight. Technically, I still don't have a plus one," she muses, filling in the silence as Barry struggles to process what she's just told him. And then he's so caught up in trying to wrap his head around the fact that _the_ Iris West_, _who must have about million different people willing to lay down at her feet,doesn't have a plus one, that he doesn't really catch her drift. When he doesn't answer right away, she decides she's got no other choice but to spell it out for him. "I mean, if you're free, and you're interested, would you…maybe want to come with me? You know, be my plus one?"

"Interested?" Barry echoes, not daring to believe it. "I'm…yeah, I'm interested. In going with you. With _you,_ holy shit. Wow, I…_wow,_" he breathes, dumbstruck.

Iris nods and grins at him in satisfaction. "Good. I should probably be getting back now, but before I do…"

She stands on her tip-toes to reach his face and plant a kiss on his cheek, grinning at him as she pulls away. He brings a gloved hand up to the spot where her lips touched, pressing his fingers against his cheek and feeling the spot burn pleasantly as a goofy smile spreads across his face. The second after he drops her back off at the ceremony, he races home to find something acceptable to wear later, his heart pounding away in his chest, his cheek still burning underneath her lipstick. He clutches the little piece of paper with her autograph tightly in his hand, careful not to let it slip away. The smile never leaves his face.


	26. Anything but Pretend

_**Prompt: fake relationship au **_

**xXx**

"You know, I've been thinking…" Barry muses, as they're lounging lazily on the couch together, her head resting against his shoulder.

"You've been _thinking_? I'm shocked," she teases as she tosses another piece of popcorn into her mouth.

"Ha, ha. You're hilarious, Iris. A true comedian." He rolls his eyes, shoving her a little. "What I was trying to say is that I've been thinking that…maybe we should just date each other?"

She nearly chokes on the popcorn kernel she's chewing on in surprise, and Barry rubs her her back soothingly as she splutters, struggling to catch her breath again. All things considered, it's really not helping. His hand on her back like that and making her heart race like it is when she's _trying _her best to calm down. He doesn't know that, of course. She's never told him, but…right. Dating._ Each other_?

"What do you mean? I thought…I thought you liked Linda…" she manages to squeak in between coughs, her voice much higher than usual. _Don't get your hopes up, Iris, don't you dare, _she scolds herself. She already knows what it feels like to have her heart crushed. She has to feel it every day, watching him fawn over some other girl at school.

"Oh, um. Right. Well…" he says distractedly, and for a second, for one beautiful, awful second her spirits lift and her heart speeds up and no matter how hard she tries she can't stop the hope that bubbles up in her chest and— "Yeah. I meant, like, _pretend_ to date each other. Like how they do in the movies. You like Eddie, and I like Linda, but neither of them really seem to know we exist, so we could pretend to date _each other _to try and make them jealous, you know?"

And just like that, her heart sinks to the pit of her stomach and her eyes are burning and she feels like she's about to be sick, and she's violently reminded of just how much the whole 'unrequited' part of this whole love thing really sucks. Everyone's always saying that if you're going to be in love, being in love with your best friend is the best thing you can be, but no one ever talks about what it feels like when your best friend _doesn't _love you back. She clenches her jaw and forces herself to smile, anyway.

"Oh," she says, her voice small, and she tries really, really hard to hide the hurt in her expression. It takes everything in her to sound cheerful when she adds, "I see where you're going with that. It's a good idea."

Except that it's not a good idea, not at all. In fact it's the _worst _idea she's ever heard, pretending to be with him just so that he can be with someone else. She kicks herself for ever telling him that she had a crush on Eddie Thawne, the boy in her gym class. In fact, she only ever said it to make him jealous. And look where it's gotten her now, she thinks bitterly. _The fucking irony._

She wants to tell him no. She wants to shoot it down, she wants to tell him just what a horrible-terrible-awful idea it is. Most of all, she wants to shake him and yell at him until he understands that she can't_ pretend_ to be in love with him because she already _is_ in love with him. But she can't. She can't let him down, and more than that she doesn't want to raise any suspicions, because even though he would never push her, he would know something was up if she said no. She's gone along with things stranger than this for him, and he certainly has for her. It's like their code—they'll do almost anything for each other. Plus, he thinks she likes Eddie. _Eddie Thawne._ Right.

She swallows the bitter taste in her mouth and forces herself to get a grip. She can do this. She's put up with worse. Like, for instance, having to watch him hold hands and suck face with Beck Cooper during _that_ brief little dating stint…Just remembering it makes her shudder.

"So, how is this going to work, exactly? We just act couple-y around school and stuff and hope that they see how happy and adorable we are until we catch their attention?"

"Something like that, yeah," Barry laughs, although there's something a little off in his voice. She writes it off as a trick of her imagination.

"Alright, let's do it, then," she sighs, struggling to get out the next part, "Right. Eddie and Linda…ha…here we come…"

xXx

They show up to school the next day, side-by-side, and exchange a determined nod before they enter the doors into the building holding hands. Iris tries really hard not to think about how well her hand fits in his, and how warm his fingers feel laced with hers, but predictably she doesn't succeed. She also can't help but wonder why Barry's palms are so sweaty, why his hands are shaking so bad that she has to give the one nestled in hers a reassuring little squeeze to make it stop. Which is another thing she can't understand—because what could possibly be making him so nervous? It's only her he's holding hands with, it's not like they've never done this before, and if he really didn't feel the same way he wouldn't be—_stop right there_. She cuts off that train of thought before it can gain any ground. Barry likes Linda. Not her. He's already made that clear.

_But then why is he blushing?_

She's not sure what throws her off more: the fact that it's so easy, so natural to act like a couple that it's barely even different from how they normally act—just with a lot more hand-holding, more lingering touches that make her heart beat just a little bit faster. And then there's that whole making heart-eyes at each other thing that Barry is…surprisingly good at. But she's still not letting herself think about that.

And then there's the fact that at least fifteen different people—some of them friends, and some of them people she barely even knows—come up to them with variations of _'congratulations',_and _'finally's _and _'I knew you two would end up together' _and so on. All she can do is fake a smile and nod.

And then _Linda _of all people, Linda who she is friendly with but who's supposed to be the whole reason for this shtick in the first place, gives her a big hug in English class along with a genuinely excited grin and tells her how _happy _she is for her, how _cute _she and Barry are together, and Iris just doesn't have the heart to correct her. Not really even for Linda but for her own sake, really, because this is going to hurt _so fucking much_ when the truth comes out, and right now she's just trying not to think about that. To pretend that this is real. She finds that that, at least, is one thing she can fake.

She doesn't even remember she's supposed to be making Eddie jealous until after the only class she has with him passes. She finds she doesn't really care much, honestly, and she doubts he does either.

Somehow she makes it through the whole day without exploding from the mounting frustration in her chest at the ghost of his touch that's perpetually lingering on her skin, and she endures every single agonizing second of it, of knowing that for him it's pretend but for her it's all real. And then the final bell rings, and she's finally reached the home stretch.

Barry is lounging at her locker and he's absentmindedly playing with her hair as she gets her books from her locker, and the thing is that they do this all the time but now everyone is watching them and catching her eye, giving her a hearty thumbs up, winking at her and flashing these bright, approving smiles her way and everyone genuinely thinks they're a couple and _God_, they _feel _like a couple, and she just wants to grab his stupid face and kiss him already—but that's not what this is about. _Not about you, Iris, _she reminds herself. _None of this is for you._

"So, are you coming over later?" she asks, fighting to keep her voice even, hating herself for the sudden butterflies in her stomach. Nothing is going to happen. Once they're not in public anymore, he'll drop the act. And that will be that.

She supposes she should tell him the unfortunate news about Linda, about his less-than hopeful chances with her, and her non-existent chance (mostly because she hasn't even said two words to him) with Eddie, and then they can just drop it all right here and now, save themselves the time before they leave school, but her mouth is dry and she can't bring herself to do it. Not yet. This is the worst thing she's ever experienced, and yet she still doesn't want it to end.

"Yeah, of course," he nods, "I just have to stay after for a meeting. I'll meet you there."

"Alright. Bye, then," she stuffs her books into her bag and straightens back up to face him. She leans toward him, and she means to just give him a quick hug, she really does, an innocent hug like they always do—but then he smiles at her with that look in his eyes, and then her mind is replaying every look, every touch leading up to this, and she _knows_ she shouldn't and she _knows_ she's going to to hate herself for this later but instead of a hug she leans up and gives him a quick peck on the lips.

She sees the look of shock register on his face, and almost immediately she feels the dread curling in her stomach, she feels her face burning, and she kind of just wants to crawl in a hole and never come out and—and then his hands are cupping her face, and his thumb is stroking her cheek, and he's guiding her face closer to his. And then _he's_ kissing _her _and it's definitely not just a quick peck and everything is loud, loud, loud, but she barely even hears the people whooping and clapping all around them because that's all just background noise compared to the thudding of her heartbeat in her ears, and her head is buzzing with shock and with pleasure and _Barry Allen is kissing her _and it feels _so real. _

"That didn't feel pretend," she breathes when they finally break apart, once she even _can_ catch her breath again, watching in a sort of dazed fascination as Barry's eyes flutter open and a slow smile spreads across his face.

"It wasn't," is his reply, one she's really not expecting, and it takes her a minute to wrap her head around what he's saying, to make sense of what's just happened.

"What about Linda?" she blurts, inwardly groaning the moment the words leave her mouth. Of all the things to bring up right now…

"Linda…?" he blinks, gazing stupidly into her eyes as though he's stuck in some sort of trance. It's a good look on him, she thinks. Something she could definitely get used to.

Iris raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief. "Linda. Linda Park, the girl you've been crushing on all semester, remember?"

"Oh. Her." He shakes his head, finally pulling himself out of his daze. "I wasn't, actually."

"You weren't…what?"

"Crushing on her. Um. I only said that because you told me you liked Eddie Thawne."

Iris blinks, caught somewhere in between amusement and confusion. And delight. Lots and lots of delight. "Okay, first of all, I only said that to make _you_ jealous. And why did you want to get Linda's attention by pretending to date me if you didn't actually like her?"

"Actually…I…um…" he trails off, rubbing the back of his neck. As she watches his ears go familiarly pink, realization dawns on her.

She lets out a short burst of laughter, smacking him on the arm. "No way. You were trying to make_me_ jealous?"

"I thought if you thought I really liked her…you know…"

"So let me get this straight—your plan was to pretend to date _me_ to make _me_ jealous by _pretending_to try to make _her_ jealous and…Barry, that is literally the dumbest thing I think I've ever heard in my entire life. You could have just asked me out like a normal person. It would have saved us both a lot of trouble."

He spreads his hands wide. "I did! This wasn't my original plan, I swear. But I asked you, and then you asked about Linda, and I was so afraid you were going to say no, and—I panicked. When I said I was thinking that maybe we should date each other, I really meant it. Except I've been thinking it for years, to be honest. Hoping for it."

"So…you like me too, then?" she asks, hesitant, still careful not to get her hopes up too much, not after all this time.

He shakes his head, and for a moment her heart sinks again, but then he smiles at her, cautious and a little bit uncertain. "Not quite," he says, wringing his hands together, "I…ah, 'like' isn't the word I would use, exactly. I liked you once, maybe, when we were _really_ little. But for the longest time it's been…well, it's been more than that, you know?"

And yeah, she knows. She definitely knows. Iris grins before kissing him again, this time without holding back, without having to worry that her feelings are at all one-sided. And it's a _really _good feeling. When it's over, she wraps her arms around him and rests her head against his chest, holding him tight. She sighs happily as his arms wrap around her in response.

"I know. And I love you, too."


	27. Sharing is Caring

_**Prompt: (pre-confession, Iris still doesn't know about how Barry loves her) Barry and Iris going on a trip together. for some event or something. and they are spending the night together in the same room with one bed, because it is the only room available. and Barry couldn't sleep at all because Iris is next to him. and also because she kicks when she is asleep.**_

**xXx**

The problem with going to junior prom with your best friend is that everyone assumes that you're dating. Which is very notably an even _bigger _problem when you really, really wish it were true. And then there's also the fact that when your friend group is arranging rooms for your after-prom festivities in the condo they've rented down the shore, they deliberately put all the couples together. They factor the two of you into that equation. The rooms are small. There's only one bed. Naturally, you're expected to share.

He doesn't know how he manages to talk them out of it—no matter how hard he and Iris try to convince their friends that they're not actually together, no one really believes it. But they keep at it, the two of them, denying it at every turn, and every time Barry has to watch her roll her eyes, to listen to the frustration creeping into her voice whenever someone gushes about how _cute_ they are together and she shoots it down straight away like it's the most ridiculous thing she's ever heard, his heart breaks just a little bit further. He keeps a smile up, anyway, even though it couldn't possibly be more fake, because this is her weekend, and she's been excited about this for months, and he'll be damned if he ruins it for her. He just wants her to be happy.

So he persists. And somehow, he manages to convince Jen, the girl who's in charge of arranging everything for prom weekend, that _no_, they're not dating, and to _please, God_, just put them in separate rooms. Which isn't actually what Iris is even worried about, he knows—he doesn't really think she'd have much of a problem with sharing a bed, because it's not like they've never done it before. She'd probably think nothing of it, as though it would just be one of their many sleepovers when they were little kids, or those times when she would climb into bed with him to comfort him when he used to get nightmares.

She doesn't think that anything has changed between them. She doesn't know how he feels. How can she, when he's never told her? That part is more for his sake, in this case. Because they're not little kids anymore, and even though he still loved her then, the way he loves her now is something much different, much stronger, much more than just a friend.

So all is well, or as well as it can get when his heart is still broken in about a million different places—until he hears a knock on his door at the condo, right after he's finished brushing his teeth and just as he's about to turn in after a long night of dancing and talking and laughing and trying not to be too obvious with his staring. On a good day it's hard for him to keep his eyes off her. In that dress? It had been nearly impossible. When he opens the door, she's standing there in front of him, in her thin fleece pajamas and with her hair already wrapped, still wearing the heavy makeup she'd done mostly by herself for prom but with a little help from him. And _Jesus Christ_, is she ever not beautiful?

"Oh, hey Iris. What's up?"

"Um, hey. So, I have a big favor to ask. Ah, Becky and Adam are…_really _going at it in my room right now, and I don't have really have anywhere else to stay, and I was wondering if…well…"

And there it is. The universe just loves fucking with him, doesn't it? He's practically jumped through hoops to avoid this very situation, and yet it finds him anyway. He has the_ worst_ luck.

"Yeah, of course. I was wondering were Adam went," he muses, even though he hadn't actually given a second thought to where the guy he'd been supposed to share a room with had gone. He opens the door all the way, stepping aside to let her in, because of course he can't say no to her. She smiles and pats his shoulder affectionately as she brushes past him and then immediately plops down on the bed, kicking off her shoes and sprawling out her legs and sighing in pleasure at the feeling of finally being off of her feet. He swallows hard.

"Uh, you can take the bed. I'll just…I'll sleep on the floor. I brought an extra blanket, anyway. I don't mind."

She sits up and raises an eyebrow, frowning at him in confusion.

"Don't be ridiculous, Barry. We can just share. I mean, you're tall, but you don't take up that much space. You're too skinny."

"No, no, really—it's fine. I'll just…the floor is fine. The floor is great, actually. You just take the bed. Make yourself comfortable, please."

"Bear, come on, I am not stealing your bed and letting you sleep on the floor! Just give it up already. It's_ fine, _seriously."

And then she pouts, and she gets that real determined look in her eye that she gets whenever she's dead-set on something, and he knows he's already lost this battle. He never really stood a chance, anyway, not against her.

He lets out a deep breath and prepares himself for the worst. "Alright, alright. Fine. No floor, then."

"Good. Now that's more like it," she beams at him, and he feels his heart speed up at that familiar smile, just like it always does. He's not even standing close to her right now, and this is how she's making him feel. _How the fuck is he supposed to survive a night in the same bed?_ She yawns loudly, covering her mouth with an expertly-manicured hand. "God, I'm super beat. I think this is the first time I've sat down all day. Thanks for tonight, Barry. For everything. For dancing with me so much even though I know you hate it."

She smiles sweetly at him as she tucks herself comfortably under the covers, eyelids droopy and already half-asleep before her head even hits the pillow. It takes him a while to work past the lump in his throat.

"Anytime. I didn't mind it, really. I always have a good time when I'm with you," he says, voice hoarse, but he doesn't even know if she hears him or not. Her eyes are closed and her face is peaceful, and he thinks she might already be out.

He sighs and rubs a tired hand down his face, resisting the urge to groan as he changes out of his dress shirt and makes his way over to the bed, dreading this. He climbs under the covers, only because it'll look suspicious if he doesn't, and takes great care to position himself as far away from her in this cramped little space as he can, angling himself away so that he's nearly falling off the edge of the bed. And even at that, she's still far too close. He can still feel the warmth of her presence at his side. Already, it's killing him.

There's a few different reasons why he stays up all night. The first two are that he forces himself to stay awake. For one, he knows he talks in his sleep. He doesn't want to think of what he might babble while he's not conscious, and he can't risk saying something he'll regret. Particularly because he so desperately wants to tell her, especially now, that he's nearly bursting with these feelings he's kept hidden for so long, so much so that it's all he can really think of at the moment. But he can't yet—he doesn't want to risk ruining their friendship, he doesn't want to ruin her weekend, he doesn't even want to imagine the look on her face when she'll tell him she doesn't feel the same way. What if she wakes up in the middle of the night to catch him talking in his sleep about just how much he really loves her? He can't allow himself to take that chance.

For another, much more humiliating, thing, he doesn't trust his own body. He already feels like every nerve ending is on fire just being this close to her, like even though he's so, so exhausted there's this electricity crackling beneath his skin and keeping him wide awake and sometimes she'll shift and brush up against him a bit and the thing is—he's dreamed about her before. Thought about her in the dark in that capacity more times than he'd like to admit, in ways he's not proud of, not when she's two doors down and he has to face her the morning after and now she's so close he doesn't even want to think about what his traitor mind will come up in his sleep. Actually, scratch that, he does, he really does, but he doesn't think he'd ever be able to look her in the eye again if he were to have one of those dreams again with her sleeping _right next to him_.

The last thing is more of a her thing than a him thing, although it's distracting all the same. She kicks in her sleep. Like, pretty hard. Normally, he'd probably be able to sleep through it anyway, but because it's her, because it's her _touching_ him, because he's so hyper-aware of his body right now and of hers right next to him and of her every movement, there's no chance. So he lays on his back, staring up at the ceiling, blinking the sleep out of his eyes, willing it to be morning already.

He's finally worked out a system to distract himself, reciting all the elements of the periodic table in his head, when she rolls over. He freezes as her leg drapes over his, and her hand lands on his chest, and her face is so close he can _feel _her breath on his neck. He wonders how she isn't woken up by how _loud_ his heart is thudding in his chest right now, because it's all he can hear, and his skin is itching for more and he's focusing really hard on breathing in and out and _if she only knew what she was doing to him. _

He wrestles really hard with his thoughts, to veer them back to innocent territory, and starts listing off different physics constants in his head. Avagadro's number. Planck's constant. The speed of light. It works a little better than the elements, anyway, and somehow he manages to survive till morning, watching with strained eyes as light slowly filters into the room, not daring to move an inch, the back of his eyes burning with exhaustion from being kept open so long. The second he feels a change in her breathing—_feels,_ he thinks to himself, because she's so goddamn close—and starts to exhibit the first signs of waking up, he schools his expression to look like he's just woken up, too. He doesn't bother pretending to be a asleep—he knows she'd see right through that.

He tries not to watch as her eyelids flutter open, and he stares straight ahead, but he catches it in the periphery of his vision anyway and feels another painful crack in his heart as he catches her horrified expression at realizing the position they're in. She pulls away and he pretends that this is what alerts him to her presence, as if he's been able to think of anything else all night, and when he sits up and rubs his eyes and looks at her she grins sheepishly at him.

"Sorry," she laughs, embarrassed, and even with the makeup from the night before smudged underneath her eyes and her voice thick with sleep she's _still _the most beautiful girl he's ever seen. "Did you sleep well?"

He fights the urge to break out into laughter at the question, to bite back the truth even though he feels it burning at the back of his throat. He considers telling her then. But no—it's still not the right time. He's not ready, and she's not ready, and whatever. He knows it's all excuses to cover up the fact that's he's fucking terrified of change. And yet…maybe next year. Next year he'll tell her.

Maybe.

"Yeah," he struggles to say, fighting to keep his voice from wavering, from giving anything away. "Yeah, great."

Honestly, the floor would have been more comfortable.


	28. Something Good Out of Something Bad

_**Prompt: two miserable people meeting at a wedding au**_

**xXx**

"You wanna know something? I really hate love," he grumbles moodily, swishing the ice around in his drink. God, right now, he would give anything to be able to get drunk again.

"Nah, man," Cisco shakes his head, taking a sip of his own drink. A soda—he thought he'd spare Barry the jealousy. "I think you're full of shit."

Barry narrows his eyes at him. "What are you getting at? That I can't be dark and angsty? I'm telling you, true love is a myth."

"Barry," Cisco sighs, shaking his head in amusement. "I don't think you've gone a week since I've known you without hugging someone for something. Also, you cried when Caitlin and I told you we were getting engaged. And you also cried during _When Harry Met Sally_. That's a romantic _comedy_, dude. Nobody cries during romantic comedies unless they're pretty invested in the whole 'love' thing. So yeah, I think you're full of shit."

Barry pouts. Why had he agreed to take Cisco along with him as his plus one to this stupid thing anyway? He wouldn't have come at all if Caitlin hadn't made him, scolding him about needing to be polite.

"Fine, whatever. You and Caitlin are different, though. I actually like you guys. Plus I've been waiting for you guys to get together for months now, so they were, like, more tears of relief."

"Suuure, Barry," Cisco laughs, and Barry sighs in frustration.

"I just…I can't believe _Becky Cooper_ found her special someone before I did."

"Dude, stop being so dramatic. You're only twenty-five. It's not the end of the world. And was she really that bad? You act like she was a total nightmare."

Barry shudders at the memory of his high school girlfriend—albeit of only a few months. He honestly doesn't know what he was thinking there, except that he had just been thrilled that any one was showing interest in him in the first place. At the time, he didn't really care who it was. But yeah, 'nightmare' was an understatement.

"You have no idea," he says darkly, "I honestly don't even know why I'm invited to this thing. The break up wasn't exactly pretty, either. I'm pretty sure she just invited our entire high school class, otherwise I doubt I would've been. Unless she's trying to rub it in my face, you know, that she's found someone who loves her before I have."

"I thought you didn't believe in love?" Cisco quips, and Barry makes a face at him. "Oh, come on, cheer up already." His gaze sweeps the room, and suddenly his eyes light up as a devious-looking grin makes its way onto his face. "Hey, do me a favor, and look over there."

Barry follows his gaze to the corner of the room, to a girl who's sitting there with her chin in her hands and looking almost as miserable as Barry feels. And beautiful. Like, really fucking beautiful.

Once Cisco is sure that he's spotted her, he pushes back his chair and makes to stand up. "See that girl? I can't imagine why, but she's sitting all alone. You should really go sit with her. Make a new friend. And talk. You can be miserable together."

"Where are you going?" he asks, startled.

"I'm going home, duh. I think it's time you branched out a bit. I mean, that's the reason Caitlin made you come to this thing—the rude thing was just an excuse."

"Wait—Cisco! You can't just leave me here all alone!"

Cisco pauses as he's turning away to throw him a wink. "You don't have to be alone, that's what I'm trying to tell you. And chill—you can run home, buddy," he gives him a mock a salute and one last evil grin, and then he's gone. Barry sits there in stunned disbelief. He could easily go after him, catch him, make him suffer through this whole stupid reception with him, sure, but now he's too distracted by the girl in the corner.

Unfortunately for him, Cisco's forgotten that if it's not fighting crime or dealing with other meta-humans, when it's anything involving exercising his less-than desirable social skills, he doesn't really have a brave bone in his body. Instead, he shoots her a lot of furtive glances, quickly looking down and staring hard at the table whenever she looks up and almost catches him. Except then he can practically_ feel _her eyes on him too, and it's a lot of back and forth glances, a lot of almost catching each other in the act but not quite, until finally they look at the same time and she catches his eye, and holds his gaze. He freezes as she stares right at him, when she grins like she knows just what he's thinking. And, lucky for him, where he lacks the courage, she clearly doesn't, because she's pushing her chair back and she's getting up and she's walking his way and _oh God_, she's walking towards him.

"Mind if I join you?" she asks when she reaches his table, and before he even answer she's already pulling out the chair that Cisco has recently vacated. He smiles to himself, sucks in a deep breath and wills himself not to blow this, and shakes his head.

"Not at all," he says as she's plopping down in the seat next to him. "I'm Barry, by the way. Barry Allen."

He really hopes his palms aren't as sweaty as they feel when he shakes her hand—_do people even shake hands anymore? Is he already making a fool out of himself?_—but she doesn't seem to mind.

"Well, it's nice to meet you, Barry. I'm Iris West." She grins sheepishly at him. "Sorry for barging over like this, by the way, or if I'm intruding. It's just—I saw that your friend left, and you were alone too, and you look pretty much as thrilled as I do to be at this thing. I thought maybe we could keep each other company."

"Oh, no, don't apologize! You're not intruding at all. It's probably good that I talk to someone rather than let myself just mope around about having to be here, anyway."

"Likewise," she grins, and then tilts her head curiously. "So, how do you know Becky, then? Or do you even know her? I could be wrong, but I'm pretty sure half of these people she's never even spoken to before. Or wait—you could know the groom, I guess, I didn't think about that—"

"No, I know Becky," he resists the urge to add _'unfortunately'_, to that statement, just in case this girl is her friend. "I dated her for a little while back in high school. Like, a very brief while."

"Wait, no way—me too!"

"Oh my God," Barry laughs, quickly shaking off his shock, "I'm so sorry you had to feel that pain too, then."

Iris throws her head back and groans, making a show of it. "I was about to say you have no idea, but I guess you actually do. 'Pain' is putting it lightly. More like torture, honestly."

"Tell me about it," he mutters, shaking his head. "And yet, she's still found someone before me."

"I was thinking the same thing," Iris sighs, rubbing her temples. "Love is stupid, anyway. If Becky's getting married I'm not so sure I even believe it's real."

"Exactly! Someone understands," he nods in agreement, and raises his glass. "Cheers to being bitter and single, then."

She laughs, and the sound sends a pleasant shiver down his spine. _Oh no, _he thinks to himself, and before he can tamp done the sudden fluttery feeling in his stomach she's flashing him this brilliant smile and it's just about the nicest thing he's ever seen and it's being directed right at him and it's_for_ him and _oh, fuck_. He swallows hard and he's already thinking of every love-at-first-sight movie he's ever seen and_ God, he's such a sap _and_ fuck Cisco for always being right_. She lifts up a near-empty glass from the table—Cisco's abandoned soda—to clink with his. "Cheers."

They sit in comfortable silence for a moment, Barry struggling to get a grip on himself as they silently bond over their sour attitudes, glaring at Becky who's still swaying in her new husband's arms on the dance floor. He determinedly avoids glancing over at Iris, because she looks just as good grumpy as she does smiling, and he really can't handle the adorable way she's scrunching up her nose in distaste like that and…_fuck it_.

"Hey, do you want to get out of here? Maybe go grab a cup of coffee or something? I think I'm gonna be sick if I look at them any longer."

He feels the heat rising in his cheeks, and he knows he must look pathetic. _Be cool, Barry, _he scolds himself. _Be cool_. Why can't he ever get through anything without blushing like an idiot? But then she breaks out into another breath-taking smile—which wouldn't sound half as cheesy if it weren't for the fact that looking at her is genuinely making it a little hard for him to breathe—and she puts a hand on his shoulder. He feels his heart speed up a little in excitement when she responds.

"I thought you'd never ask."


	29. Just My Luck

_**Prompt(s): (for this one I combined two prompts that I was sent) 1. "'You're my boss' kid and we kinda had a one night stand.' w/Joe as the boss" and**__** 2\. "'you thought i was someone else and started making out with me at a club and you're really hot so i just went with it and now we're heading back to your place and idk how to break it to you' au"**_

**xXx**

Barry doesn't dance. Like, never. Ever, ever. So when Cisco_ insists_ on dragging him out to the club to spend the night out, it mostly consists of him standing around awkwardly on the dance floor, shuffling his feet and swaying back and forth in some way that may or may not qualify as dancing, shaking his head at Cisco's…enthusiastic…rhythm, and silently bonding with Caitlin over how out of place they feel here. This kind of thing has never really been his scene.

He's laughing at a particularly strange dance movie that Cisco is pulling off, exchanging an amused look with Caitlin—whose eye he catches as Cisco's twirling her around in his arms—when he hears a voice come from behind him.

"Oh, there you are! I didn't know you were over here…"

He assumes that this is meant for someone else, and simply ignores it. But then there's a hand on his shoulder, and he turns around to face whoever it is, confused. He tries to open his mouth to tell them that they've got the wrong person and—and then they're kissing him. And not gentle kissing either, not just a peck on the lips, but_ really _intense, really passionate kissing, and he's so taken off guard that he doesn't know what to do with himself, or how to respond.

His eyes are still open so even though it's dark, he's able to get a good look at her face this up-close and personal, and wow. _Wow._ How is it possible that someone who looks like_ that_ is kissing _him_? And then she wraps a hand around his neck to pull him down closer to her and deepens it and there's really nothing he can think to do besides kiss her back.

When she pulls away, she rests a hand on his chest and smiles at him. She squints a little, and he wonders whether she can even really see him, considering how dimly lit the place is, how the only time he can really see her is when the strobe light flashes and throws light their way. It's bound to be confusing. He also wonders whether she's mistaken him for someone, because there's no way she randomly picked _him_ from the crowd, of all people. He's just not that lucky.

"Hmm. You're taller than I thought. Maybe just because you were sitting down earlier, but…Come on, let's get out of here. Your place, if you don't mind. My dad'll be home. Pretend I didn't just say that, actually—I don't want you making fun of me for still living with my dad," she babbles, and Barry doesn't know how to respond.

He looks over to Caitlin and Cisco, startled, unsure of what to do with himself. This kind of thing never happens to him, and now he's pretty much positive she's got the wrong person. Cisco's grin is wide and encouraging and he gives Barry a hearty thumbs up, while Caitlin just rolls her eyes. Barry makes a baffled face at them as the girl tugs at his hand again, pulling him away from the crowd. In the end, he can't figure out a way to say no, or for her to hear him over the loud music, and then again he doesn't really want to. He turns to give Cisco a wide-eyed salute and then lets himself be pulled away.

Except that by the time they make it outside, and the crisp air has cleared his head a bit from the happy-fog that her kiss had left settled over his better judgement, he remembers that he's probably not the guy she'd been looking for, and that's…really not cool. He can't let this drag on any longer, no matter how much he wants to—she's bound to realize he's an imposter once she gets a good look at him in better light. That wouldn't be fair to her.

"Hey," he calls out to her, working past the pleasant haziness she's still left on his mind. "I don't…um, I don't think I'm the person you were looking for."

She whips back around so fast he nearly crashes into her, but then she stands on her tip-toes and squints her eyes again to get a better look at his face. Her mouth falls open a little in surprise.

"Oh. You're not Eddie."

Barry swallows hard. He knew it was too good to be true, but it still stings. "Your boyfriend?"

She blinks, and then breaks out into laughter. It's a nice sound. He finds himself wanting to hear more of it. "Boyfriend? Oh, God, no. He's just a guy I met at the bar, like, an hour ago. He bought me a drink. I'd hardly say that qualifies as dating."

"Ah," Barry nods, unsure of what to do with himself. He motions weakly back to the club, reluctant to leave but seeing no other option. "I…uh…I guess I'll be getting back, then. Have a nice—"

"Don't be silly," she says, grabbing his hand again and resuming pulling him along with her. "You're cute, too. And a good kisser. You'll do just fine."

"Excuse me…?" he manages to get out, eyes wide, voice an octave too high.

"Work has been hell, lately. I'm just looking to have a good time tonight, you know? Have some fun. Let loose. Whatever," she waves a hand in the air, nonchalant, and then freezes. He nearly walks right into her again. "Unless, of course, you don't want to, or you're not down for that. I'm so sorry—I didn't mean to make you feel pressured. I just assumed—I shouldn't have assumed—I didn't—"

Barry shakes his head, grateful that he's not the only one who seems to be nervous anymore. "No, no it's fine. I'm, uh. I'm totally down. I'm just…surprised, is all."

"Oh," she grins, and tugs excitedly at his hand again. She hails a cab as they approach the street corner. "_Excellent_."

xXx

When he wakes up, she's already gone, and he feels a momentary flash of disappointment at the empty spot in the bed next to him, disappointment that he immediately works to tamp down. What did he expect? That she was going to stick around? There was a reason these kinds of things were called 'one-night stands'. They typically only lasted…well, one night. Still, it's hard not to want more when he pictures that smile, when he remembers the night they had, how she'd made him feel, all the things they'd laid awake talking about after and—he stops himself. He's practically blushing just thinking about it.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and rubs a tired hand his face, and then goes to check the time on his phone sitting on the nightstand. He feels a sudden, swooping sensation in his stomach when he taps the screen and it tells him that he has a text message from_ 'Iris ;)'_.

Iris. _The girl from last night. _He doesn't even remember getting her number, but he's certainly not complaining. He embarrasses himself with how eagerly he hastens to read the message, and finds he can't wipe the smile on his face after he does.

'_Hope you don't mind—I put my number in your phone while you were sleeping, and I sent a message to myself so I'd have yours. I had to leave for work this morning, but…I just wanted to let you know that you can call/text me anytime. Last night was great ;)'_

He's so beside himself with excitement that it takes him at least a solid two minutes to realize that he's slept through his alarm, and that he's already late for work, himself. He still takes the time to respond, typing and deleting and re-typing his messages so many times—debating the right thing to say, not wanting to sound too desperate, but then again not too uninterested—that by the time he's finally satisfied with sending off a simple _'Definitely ;)'_, he's so late that he's _really _pushing his luck.

"What's got you all bright and chipper today, Allen? You're _late_," is the gruff greeting he receives from his boss when he enters the precinct and makes his way to his lab, still grinning like mad.

"Oh, sorry Captain West," he pauses, briefly considering telling him at least part of it. In the time that he's worked here, from when he'd known him as just 'Officer' and then 'Detective' and finally as 'Captain', Joe West had always been something of a mentor to him, and he'd venture to say that they're decent friends. Plus, he feels like he's going to explode if he doesn't tell someone. "I met a girl. She's amazing."

"Well, congratulations," Joe raises an eyebrow, and fights the urge to smile. He's always had something of a soft spot for their resident forensic scientist, in all his awkward, bumbling glory. Plus, the kid's smile is infectious. It's hard for anyone not to be happy when he is. "As thrilling as I'm sure your personal life is at the moment, that's still not an excuse for being late."

"Right. I know, won't happen again," he calls over his shoulder, hurrying to his lab, knowing full well that it will. He's late, like, every other day. He just hopes he has the same excuse in the future.

He's in the middle of analyzing a blood sample when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and when he extracts it with his free hand and catches sight of who the message is from he nearly drops the test tube he's holding. He sets it down carefully and nearly chokes when he reads what she's sent him.

'_I have to say, I wasn't expecting that from you. You were amazing. Where'd you learn to do that thing with your tongue?'_

His gaze sweeps the lab as he blushes head-to-toe, coughing in embarrassment. There's no one around, but still…

'_I'm a little offended that you weren't expecting much from me, to be honest. Maybe I'd tell you, if you were nicer.'_

He fiddles with the centrifuge in front of him, waiting for his results as well as for her reply, the latter with baited breath. It doesn't take long.

'_Oh, come on, you can't blame me. You have to admit, you don't seem the type. You were so nervous. It's okay, though—I think it's adorable. Also, I'd prefer if you'd just demonstrate, again. You know, showing is better than telling. I'd return the favor. ;)'_

He sucks in a deep breath. He should _not_ be doing this at work. Having this kind of conversation. This must be against some sort of rule, really. But then he grins to himself as he types out his reply, finding that he doesn't really care much either way. They go back and forth like that for a while—flirting, talking, whatever, and somewhere along the line they set up to go out for coffee, after they're both finished work. They even set a time. He's practically over the moon about where this seems to be going.

He jumps about a foot in the air when he's in the middle of writing a particularly…interesting text and one of the new detectives—Thawne, he thinks—walks into his lab.

"Sorry, Allen. Didn't mean to startle you. But Joe wants to see you—says he needs you to grab a file on a new case that's just come in."

"Sure thing," Barry nods, hoping to God that he's not as red as he thinks he must be. He follows him down the stairs and towards Joe's office and then—he freezes in place, his eyes going wide as saucers and his heart dropping to his stomach in dread because fuck, fuck, _fuck_—that's her. And she's hugging Captain West and she's calling him 'dad' and _holy shit, he's so fucked_. He doesn't think it could possibly get any worse—but it does.

"Iris? Is that you? I was wondering where you went last night," Detetctive Thawne says in surprise when he spots her, seemingly unaware of Joe standing _right there_. Barry bites back a groan of exasperation.

"Oh! Eddie," Iris laughs uncomfortably, and then her eyes land on Barry standing behind him, and her mouth falls open in shock. "Barry…?" Barry shakes his head frantically and she seems to catch on, because she quickly looks away. "Um. I didn't…know you worked here. Either of you, uh… I had…places to be, Eddie—I'm sorry."

"Thawne, what are you talking about? Where were you with my daughter last night?" Joe asks, narrowing his eyes, and Eddie seems to realize his blunder.

"Nothing! I mean, nowhere, I was just—I was just leaving. Ha. Right. I'll see you around then," he gives Iris a tight smile and then scampers away, Joe's heavy stare at his back.

"And do you two know each other?" Joe demands, pointing at them accusingly.

Iris blurts out a 'yes' at the same time Barry stammers out a 'no'.

"I mean, yes—"

"—I meant no!"

"Um." Barry rubs the back of his neck, determinedly avoiding Iris's gaze. "What we mean is, uh, we've met before, briefly, like, in passing. But we don't really_know _each other, um. You know?"

"Alright…" Joe eyes the two of them suspiciously, but thankfully he lets the matter drop. "Barry, get back to work so that I can talk to my daughter. I left a file on Eddie's desk that I need you to look over."

"Yes, sir," he says in a small voice, wanting nothing more than to crawl in a hole and die, to get as far away from this situation as possible.

And yet, he only makes it across the room, and ends up lingering at Eddie's desk a lot longer than necessary, going through the file he's been given with deliberate slowness. He tries really hard not to stare at Iris, still not too far away, as she converses with her father, although he can't help glancing up at her every few seconds. It seems like she's looking down at something, but he can't tell what…and then his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he nearly drops the file in his hands as he scrambles to check it without drawing attention to himself.

'_So, are we still on for coffee later?' _the message reads, and he looks up in surprise. She's not looking at him, but he can clearly make out the smirk playing on her lips. His eyes go wide in equal parts horror and excitement. She's texting him while talking to her dad. _Unbelievable._

'_You're evil.' _he responds, shaking his head in disbelief.

'_I'll take that as a yes? ;D'_

'…_yes.'_

He sighs dramatically. His life is literally playing out like a romantic comedy, at this point, and this has all been in the span of less than two days. (He doesn't actually mind though, he thinks to himself, if this all ends up working out. He loves romantic comedies.)


	30. Starting a Family

_**Prompt: Stomach Kiss**_

**xXx**

She's lounging with her hip against the kitchen counter, waiting for her coffee to finish brewing—a bad habit she needs to break, really, considering it's past dinner time and she really shouldn't be drinking coffee right now to begin with. She's so absorbed in her thoughts, her heart racing in excitement, her nerves off the charts, that she doesn't even hear him come in. She does, however, feel it when he sneaks up behind her and snakes his arms around her waist, making her jump, announcing his sudden presence with an innocent, cheery little _"Hello!"_

"Barry! I _told _you to stop doing that. You're going to give me a heart attack, one day." She twists around in his arms so that she's facing him, swatting him accusingly on the shoulder.

"Sorry," he grins sheepishly, kissing her on the cheek. "How was your day? Anything interesting happen at work?" She swallows down the urge to blurt out what she's dying to tell him right then and there, forces herself to do it right. She waves a hand in the air, feigning nonchalance.

"Oh, you know, the usual. Working on the same article from the other day—no new stories yet this week. How was crime-fighting tonight?" she quips, because he's still in his suit, his hair messy and ruffled just the way she likes it right after he's pushed the hood back. He must have just gotten done patrolling the city, the way he does every night after work to make sure things are safe. Sometimes she's afraid he'll run himself dry—no pun intended. But he insists, and she's long since learned that arguing with him about it isn't going to get him to stop.

"The usual," he echoes her words with a smirk. "Actually, it's been really quiet recently. I'm starting to think that something big and bad's going to happen soon, you know, just to make up for these past few weeks of peace. It feels weird—like, it's making me anxious." He starts to frown, and she resolves that she has to tell him now. She can't have him frowning on a day like today, not considering the news she has for him.

"Well, I don't know if something bad is going to happen in the city or not, but I've got something to tell you that might take your mind off of that. Like, really good news. About that thing we've been talking about." She fights really hard to keep the smile off her face, to keep her expression neutral. She doesn't want to give it away with a look—she wants him to be properly surprised.

"About putting Bolt through doggie boot camp? Oh come on, Iris, please don't tell me you signed him up—I keep telling you he's not _that _out of shape," he gestures to the dog lounging lazily at their feet, and it wags its tail weakly at hearing its name, looking at them with big, sad puppy-eyes. "And look at that face—you've hurt his feelings."

"Not that," she laughs, rolling her eyes. "I meant the other thing. The really big thing. The thing we've been hoping for for, like, months."

He scratches the back of his neck, uncomprehending. "What other thing…?"

She raises an eyebrow at him in disbelief, and he stares at her for a few seconds in honest confusion before his gaze flickers downward and then back up to her face, with dawning realization.

"Oh my God," he says, eyes wide, "_Oh my God_. No way. Nowaynowaynowaynoway—"

"Barry, calm down," she grins in amusement, laying a hand on his arm and feeling the buzzing of his skin underneath her fingertips. "You're doing that thing again." She still doesn't think she'll ever really get used to the fact that the phrase 'vibrating with excitement' quite literally means '_vibrating_ with excitement', in his case.

"Sorry, sorry," he breathes, and when his face comes back into focus his smile is so big it's a wonder it can even fit on his face. She's pretty sure she looks about the same, right now. Her cheeks are starting to hurt from smiling so wide. Barry takes in a deep breath, trying to get a grip on himself. "Are you…are you serious?"

"Would I lie about something like this?"

"No…no, you wouldn't," he rubs a hand down his face, still struggling to believe that this is real, _this is happening_. He claps a hand over his mouth, muffling his delighted laughter. "Oh my God, Iris, you're…we're…we're gonna be parents!"

She nods, beaming at his enthusiasm and her own, and she feels the tears start to spill over—although of course Barry's already beaten her to that. He wraps his arms around her and lifts her into the air, twirling her around the kitchen in excitement.

"_We're gonna be parents!"_

She laughs along with him, and Bolt jumps around their heels, barking loudly, unsure of the cause of all the sudden commotion but eager to be a part of it. When Barry finally stops twirling her, she finds that the room is still spinning—but in a good way. He doesn't put her down right away, but instead carries her to the couch and sets her down gently there, still grinning ear-to-ear.

He lifts up her shirt a little, revealing the skin there, and shoots her another ecstatic grin before trailing butterfly kisses all over her stomach, leaving traces of the curve of his smile against her skin.

"Bear, that tickles," she giggles, and at the sound of her voice he stops, looking up at her through those long eyelashes, his eyes bright and filled with glee and shining with unshed tears. He grins and then he makes his way up to her lips, and she's laughing as he's kissing her and he's smiling into it, and she's so goddamn happy. This is one of those moments that she wants to savor forever.

"We're finally building a family together Iris, can you believe it? _We made a person._"

She laughs as she rests her forehead against his. "Don't let Bolt hear you say that. I think he's convinced we already have—I mean, he's sort of our first child, in a way."

She doesn't think it's possibly for Barry's smile to get any bigger, but it does. "Of course, how could I forget," he says, and right on cue, the dog is there next to them, nudging his arm for attention. He absentmindedly pats it on the head, but his focus is still all on her.

"Have I ever told you how much I love you, Mrs. West-Allen?"

She cups his face in her hands and kisses him again, her lips curling into a smile against his. "Only every day."

"Well, only because it's true. I really do. So much." He pauses, and then leans down to place another kiss on her stomach. "_And we're going to be parents._"


	31. Run Away With Me

_**Prompt: "they captured you and put me in your room because I can suppress other people's powers so you hate me but I'm lonely and bored and want to talk to you"**_

**xXx**

About a million questions had run through her mind since she'd been taken, questions that she'd shouted and snapped and demanded from the people in the ominous white lab coats that had brought her here, and yet she hadn't yet gotten an answer to one–not from them, at least.

_Who are you? Where am I? Where are you taking me? What did I do? Why are you doing this?_

She thought she sort of knew the answer to some of those already. _What did I do? _Well, she hadn't actually done anything, nothing _wrong_ at least, nothing she could think of, other than having powers. Really lame ones, too–but powers all the same. She was being punished for being able to do things that other people couldn't, for 'posing a threat'–although how much of a threat she actually posed was up for debate.

_Why are you doing this?_ She spat out a mouthful of blood as one of mystery men hit her across the face for daring to ask again. She swallowed the rest of the blood and forced the bile down in her throat, gritting her teeth and resisting the urge to puke all over their ugly white coats. She knew the answer to that, too, she thought bitterly. _Because I'm different. _

She was well aware of the bias against people like her, and she'd heard whispers of these kind of covert operations to round up her kind, to capture and detain and test and torture and ultimately to use, but she'd never really expected it would happen to her. Mostly because from the stories that she'd heard, they were trying to turn people into weapons. All things considered, she didn't really think she'd make a good weapon, or that her abilities really had much use at all, but…maybe they had something else in mind. The thought sent shivers down her spine.

She tried to keep track of where they were going, but it was dark and they lead her down lots of long hallways, deliberately making twists and turns every which way, and her mind was already tired enough. Eventually, they came to a stop in front of a heavy, secure-looking metal door, almost like a safe, except on the outside there were warning signs–_Warning: subject high risk for escape. Warning: Dangerous_. Stuff like that. She was baffled at first–because _her_? Dangerous? Where on Earth had they gotten _that_ idea from? She couldn't actually do anything destructive with her power–at least no more destructive than a normal human could.

Before she could contemplate it further, they punched in a code and the door opened with a load groaning noise, revealing a cramped, box-shaped little room. They threw her roughly into it, finally relinquishing their bruising grip on her arm. She hit the ground with a painful _thud_, her legs crumpling beneath her. By the time she was able to push herself off the ground and scramble back to her feet, they were already long gone, and if she'd learned anything from her trip down to…wherever this was…it was that shouting wasn't going to do her any good.

Instead, she let her gaze sweep the room, taking in her surroundings. Small. White walls. White tile floors. Blinding white lights. It was giving her a headache already, just giving it a glance over. She swept her gaze to the other side. A small closed off space (bathroom?) and a little slit in the wall (for food?). Two very small and uncomfortable-looking beds, and–her heart nearly skipped a beat as she took in the image before her. One of the beds was _occupied_.

This must have been the person the signs were meant for then, the dangerous subject, except–except he certainly didn't _look_ dangerous at all. Whatever his power was, it must have been impressive, because otherwise he seemed…really un-intimidating. Lanky and almost child-like laying there curled up on the bed, completely knocked out and from the looks of it beat up, covered in cuts and bruises. Not to mention _way _too skinny, with hollow cheeks and tired bags underneath his eyes. She wondered just how long he'd been here, and if she'd soon look the same. She shuddered at the thought.

She was pacing around the room, trying and failing to calm her racing thoughts, to bring herself back from the edge of panic, when he woke up with a start. His mouth fell open in shock when the haziness of pain finally cleared from his vision and he saw her standing there, like she was the last person he expected to see. Or maybe it was just that he didn't expect to see a person at all. She wondered how long it had been since he'd interacted with anyone. He looked around him wildly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion before he finally looked back at her.

"Why am I not tied down?" he asked, voice hoarse from disuse, with a bemused look on his face, bringing his knees up to his chest and his rubbing his ankles absentmindedly. "They always tie me down. They're afraid I'll run away. Which I would, if they didn't keep finding ways to stop me."

Realization dawned on her. _'Warning: subject high risk for escape._' Somehow, she didn't think he meant running in the normal sense, not if he was in a place like this. "So that's your thing, then? Running?"

"Fast, yeah. Really fast," he frowned, looking at his hands like he'd never seen them before. "Except I don't feel right. Usually I can feel it. Like…like this power inside me. But it's just…it's not there anymore," his voice got steadily higher as he turned panicked eyes on her, desperate for an answer. "Do you think they finally found a way to take it from me? For their weapons? My speed's all I have left, I can't…I can't lose that."

And then it hit her. Why they'd brought her here, put her in this room specifically. Why she was useful. They didn't have to worry about such an important subject escaping, didn't have to deal with all of the extensive trouble of restraining him every day, when she could just suppress his abilities by the mere fact of being in the same room as him.

"Ah, no," she said, offering what she hoped was a placating smile. "That'd probably be me. I can sort of…make other people's meta-abilities–or whatever they're called–go away, when I'm near them. Like something in me cancels theirs out. It's kind of the lamest power ever, I know. Isn't it? I really got the short the short end of the stick there, I'm always say–"

"You're joking," he spat, cutting her off and narrowing his eyes at her. "Please tell me you're fucking joking."

His hostility took her off guard. "No, I'm…I'm not. Sorry?"

"Great. Fucking fabulous," he scowled, shooting her one last glare as he laid back down, turning his back towards her and facing the wall. "I'm never going to get out of here now."

She made a strangled noise of disbelief and bit back the urge to make a snide remark about how he'd _clearly_ been doing so great on that front before, but instead she climbed up onto the other bed, squeezing her eyes shut and willing this all to be a bad dream, praying that she'd wake up in her own home, in her own bed, to the familiar smell of coffee, fresh from the pot.

No such luck.

And so it went on like that–her trying to make small talk, to be friendly, because after all, unpleasant though the guy might be, it was _lonely_ in here. She just wanted someone to talk to, something to do other than count the cracks lining the ceiling, imagining every unrealistic scenario under the sun of her father planning some bold rescue plan at this very moment to bust her out of here. But every time, her attempts at small talk were met with silence, or sharp, cutting remarks, a roll of the eyes, a withering glare. Sometimes, he told her to leave him alone, leveling her with the nastiest look he could muster. Which, considering his would-be cute baby-face, was sort of a difficult task–but somehow he managed.

Mostly he just ignored her. She wasn't really sure which was worse. She didn't even know how much time had passed since she'd been here (there had been crappy, less-than-filling meals slipped in for the both of them every so often, and her stomach was already starting to groan in protest, feeling more and more empty by the second, so she assumed it must_ at least_ have been days), and she felt like she was going crazy. Alone with her thoughts in this tiny white room with only one other person, a person who happened to hate her for something she couldn't even control.

"Can't you stop that? Whatever you're doing to me?" he demanded angrily, a few (days? weeks?) later, refusing to look at her, glaring at the wall. She was sure he must be missing his speed a lot all of a sudden, to talk to her first. He always missed it, but it seemed to hit him especially hard in random spurts, and of course he always took hit out on her, assuming she was to blame. "If it weren't for you I could've been out of here ages ago."

"First of all, that's bullshit and you know it," she snapped, having had enough. "And second of all, no, I can't. I don't know how to control it. And I'd appreciate it if you stopped treating me like the enemy here–we're both in the same shitty situation. It's not my fault they put me in here to keep you from escaping. Seriously, get over yourself. I'm stuck here too."

He didn't seem to be expecting her outburst, and he finally tore his gaze away from the wall, looking at her in surprise. His forehead creased in confusion and she noticed the color starting to creep its way into his cheeks. "What do you mean, you're stuck…?"

She rolled her eyes. "Did you really think I was just in here for fun? No offense, but you're not exactly proving to be great company right now. And the food is terrible. I'm totally willingly starving, here."

"No," he shook his head, looking properly ashamed. He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Actually, I…I thought you were one of them. You know, working for the people who put me–I mean us, I guess–in here. That's why I was so angry at you, um…but…"

She huffed and crossed her arms, offended. "Well, I'd guess you'd know that that wasn't the case if you hadn't been so mean and spiteful in the first place and actually, you know, engaged in civilized conversation with me.

"Oh," he blinked, and then gave her a shaky, embarrassed smile. She dully noted that it was the first time she'd seen him do anything other than scowl. It was a good look on him–like his whole faced changed with just that little up-tick of his lips. He looked softer, kinder. More approachable. Likeable, even. "Uh, yeah. I–sorry, about that. That was really a dick move of me. I shouldn't have assumed, and…fuck, I've been such an asshole, haven't I? And you're the only person I've spoken to in…in a while, and now you probably hate me, and–"

"Dude, slow down," she held up a hand to silence him, fighting back a smile. "Yes, you acted like an asshole. And you're right, you shouldn't have assumed. But you look like you've been through hell here, and I can see why you'd be suspicious, and–well, it looks like we're the only company each other has in this place, and it'd be nice to have a friend in all of this, so. I forgive you. I'm willing to start over, if you are."

And then he smiled in earnest, full and bright and friendlier than she'd ever seen him, and yeah, it was a _really_ good look on him. She almost had half the nerve to tell him so–she deserved more of that smile, after all, after putting up with God-knows how long of pouting and sulking and glaring and generally sour looks from his corner. But she didn't, although she did file the image away in her memory, silently crossing her fingers that she'd be seeing more of it, now that they'd made their amends.

He hopped off his bed and crossed the room, extending an eager hand toward her. "Barry Allen," he said, with that same goofy smile still plastered across his face. It was a bit disorienting, honestly, how quickly his entire demeanor had changed, but she supposed he'd been in here much longer than her. He was probably desperate for a friend, excited at the prospect that not everyone in here was…well, evil.

"Iris West," she replied, accepting his handshake. It was warm and inviting and–strange. She could swear she felt a surge of something as her skin made contact with his, something strange and unfamiliar and_ powerful,_ and judging by the way his eyes widened in surprise, she was relatively sure he felt it too.

And then just as quickly as it came, it was gone.

He blinked at her in surprise and she shook her head, writing it off as some weird effect of her power. She'd never actually touched another meta-human before–maybe it was because of that. Pushing the thought off to the back of her mind, she tilted her head at him, considering.

"So, Bartholomew–"

"–Don't call me that!" She grinned wickedly at his horrified expression and filed this information away for later use. Judging by his reaction, it really was his full name. Which was excellent leverage for the future. After all, they were friends now, right? They'd decided that much. And what were friends for if not to collect embarrassing dirt on each other?

"Fine, fine, you're no fun. Nice name, though. I was just guessing," she laughed, and he glared at her, although it was different glare than what she was used to from him–this one was all playful, and with none of the heat or anger she'd grown accustomed to in his eyes.

"You know what–I changed my mind. You are evil, after all."

She rolled her eyes. "Oh, get over it. And you cut me off, by the way," she said, pointing an accusing finger at him. "I was going to say so, _Barry_, are you up for a game of twenty questions? We've got all the time in the world and nothing better to do than get to know each other."

"Yeah," he smiled at her, his eyes bright with excitement at the prospect of doing something fun for the first time in a long time–certainly since he'd been here. "Yeah, I'd like that."

Her answering grin left him blushing. "Excellent."

xXx

Time passed. Days, weeks, maybe even months–it was impossible to know, trapped in the room they were being held in, no windows, no outside sound, really no indication of the outside world at all. They planned escapes they knew would never happen, they comforted each other after one of them would be taken away and come back, beaten and bruised and bloody after being tested on.

But mostly they just talked. He told her about Bette, the tough but kind woman who had been in here briefly with him, the one who could blow the walls off the place with a single touch, before they'd come to take her away one day. About how she'd struggled and screamed, about how she hadn't come back after that. His face had darkened when he'd recounted that particular story, and Iris had held his hands steady as they shook.

When things threatened to get too dark, when they both started to worry that Bette's future was what was in store for them, they talked about happier things, too. About better times, about life before this, about each other, about themselves, about their interests and hobbies and experiences, about everything and nothing all at once.

And they laughed together. Which, considering their situation, was pretty fucking incredible. They smiled. They _made_ each other smile. Iris wasn't sure if it was the whole close-proximity thing, if it was because Barry was sort of the only human contact she'd had other than the men in the white coats for…well, for a while, or if he was just sort of someone she'd been meant to meet in some way or another, but being with him felt right. And despite the people keeping them here trying so hard to tear the two of them down, to break them, weaken their spirits, smother their hope, she felt strangely whole. She felt…well, she'd grown to feel a whole damn lot for him, and she could tell he felt it for her, too.

And then one day, all their talk of escaping suddenly became a very possible reality, and all thanks to the very people keeping them there. She overheard the people testing her talking about it, talking about_ her_, after they'd thought she was out cold, and she'd struggled not to give herself away, to keep a straight face and not let them knew that she knew. When they'd finally tossed her back into the room, she refused to budge until she was sure they had left, and she waited until she could feel Barry kneeling at her side.

He rested a comforting arm on her shoulder, and reeled back in surprise at the excitement shining in her eyes when she finally lifted her head, turning to face him. She gripped his arm and held it tight, grinning at the familiar surge of power she felt whenever they touched, reveling in the new knowledge of what it meant.

"Barry listen–feel that?" She whispered excitedly, not pausing long enough to allow for an answer. "Of course you do, it's been happening for a while now, it's just–I found out what it means. Turns out I don't just suppress people's abilities–I can _channel_ them, if I focus hard enough." His eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she squeezed her eyes shut, focusing with all her might on not blocking that power she felt sparking off his skin to hers, but instead on channeling it, _using_ it. When she opened her eyes again, she let out an elated laugh, bringing the hand that had been gripping his arm up close to her face, watching as it buzzed and vibrated. She pushed herself off the ground, pulling him up with her, and darted across the room, faster than it took her to blink.

"No way," she said with a breathless little laugh, turning bright eyes on him and grinning hugely, as he looked back at her with awe. And then he tore his gaze away, looking down at his own hands, clapping one over his mouth when he noticed that his were vibrating again, too.

"Iris…Iris!" he exclaimed, crossing the room and sweeping her up in his arms in a matter of seconds. "Oh my God, I don't know what you did, but you did it. You're controlling your–your thing! My speed is back, and you have it too, this is…this is amazing!" he laughed, twirling her around before finally setting her back on her feet, beaming at her. "_Thank you_."

She grinned it delight, high off this new discovery, when it occurred to her. She sucked in a deep breath and gripped his arm tight again, regarding him with wide eyes.

"But do you know what this means, Barry?" she babbled excitedly, feeling the power surging through her like electricity crackling beneath her skin. "_It means we can get out_."

Her smile faltered upon seeing the way his fell, as she took in his torn expression, and her heart sunk in confusion and disappointment as he shook his head. "Iris I–I can't."

"_Why?_ Barry, this is our chance," Iris whispered urgently, keeping her voice low and struggling to hide the hurt in it. "If you have your powers back, and I can use your powers too, we can actually escape together!"

His expression looked pained as he bit his lip, casting a glance towards the door. "Iris…there are other people in here. People like us. Like Bette. I can't…I can't just leave them here, not when I know I can get out, now."

His eyes were pleading when he met her gaze again, like he was begging her to understand, like he was afraid she might hate him for suggesting it. Which was exactly the opposite of what she was feeling, because as his words sunk in, as she realized what he was saying, she felt herself fall just a little bit more in love with him. She stood on her tip-toes and kissed him, not soft or hesitant at all, but hard and laced with need. This was something she was sure of. This was something that felt right, when nothing else really did. After a few moments of stunned disbelief, of standing there, frozen in shock, he kissed her back, and with just as much desperation. When she finally pulled away, he blinked at her, eyes wide and dazed in equal parts confusion and delight.

"Why did you do that?" he breathed, eyes still fixed on her lips, wet and red and swollen from his own.

She placed her hands on either side of his face and forced his gaze forward, looking him straight in the eye. She cleared her throat, and was embarrassed to find that she was fighting back tears as she spoke again. "Because you're a fucking idiot. A big, heroic idiot, and I–I kind of love you for it."

It was the closest she could get to saying _'I love you' _without actually saying it, because something about saying the words outright felt ominous. Like a death wish, and too dramatic for her taste. She'd seen it in movies, had read it in books. The only times people said_ 'I love you' _to the people they loved before that person did something stupid and reckless and unbelievably dangerous were when they didn't think that person would be coming back. And that was something she couldn't afford to think about, not now.

He was still looking at her with that awestruck expression, that glassy look in his eye, and she took it as a good indication that he felt pretty much the same about her as she felt about him. Not that she really doubted it, of course…but it was nice to be sure. To see firsthand the kind of effect she had on him, how her touch had left him reeling. She could watch him look at her like that all day, honestly, like she was the only thing in the world that mattered, but as it stood, that wasn't exactly the case. They had bigger problems to worry about right now than just the two of them. Others. Escape. _Soon_.

"Barry," she waved a hand in front of his face, and he blinked stupidly, his mind still in a fog. "Barry, we have to figure out how we're going to do this. And soon–I don't think we have much time before they come…now that I think about it, I'm sure they must have some sort of hidden cameras in here and–we need to get a move on if we're going to get the others out, too."

That seemed to get his attention. "We?" he echoed, narrowing his eyes at her.

"Yes,_ we_. I'm coming with you, of course."

His eyes immediately cleared, his expression darkening as he shook his head firmly. "No, you're not. It's too dangerous and–"

"_Barry Allen_," she growled, stomping her foot down and jabbing a finger at his chest. "I am _not _leaving you behind. Do not even _try_ to argue with me about this, because you _will_ lose, and you're already wasting time we don't have. I can handle myself–I think we've already established that."

He looked conflicted, like he really wanted to protest, but he knew her well enough by now to know that she wasn't going to back down. And she was right–they really didn't have _time _to argue right now.

"Alright," he sighed, defeated, "then we need a game plan."

Iris nodded, biting the inside of her cheek in thought. "Well, first things first, we need to get this door open–and before they do."

"Right," Barry nodded in agreement as they both directed their attention to the near-impenetrable looking metal door. He scrunched up his nose as he considered it. "I used to be able to phase through solid objects, you know, but I haven't done it in so long, and I don't even think I'd have the space in here to build up that kind of speed, anyway. Plus you're new to my powers, too–you've never done that before. It's too risky, but I can't think of anything else…"

She looked down at her hands, intermittently buzzing with power they weren't used to, and an idea occurred to her. "How about you vibrate it open? If that makes sense. You can vibrate your hands, right? Maybe if you do that long enough against the door, it'll weaken it?" She bit her lip, suddenly unsure of herself. It had sounded a lot better in her head. She let out a sigh of relief as she watched him consider it and then nod eagerly in agreement.

"Yeah, that could work. It's definitely worth a try, anyway." He pursued his lips, contemplating their next move. "Okay, so here's what we'll do–each of us can sweep the place, round up whoever we come across and then meet up outside…if we can find outside, that is. If not we're screwed, so we're basically going out on a limb here, but…I'll take right, you head left? That way we can cover more ground in less time," Barry suggested, his mouth set, wearing a steely, determined look that Iris had never quite seen on him before. A million reasons why splitting up would _not _be a good idea floated through her mind, and she wanted to argue, but in the end she knew that if they really wanted to get everyone out in the limited time they had, it was the most practical. She swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry with fear as she responded.

"Yeah. Yeah, that works."

Barry let out a deep breath, placing his hands on the door, leaning his weight against it as he shot her an anxious look. She tried to give him an encouraging smile, but the muscles in her face didn't seem to be working right, her whole body frozen in apprehension. Still, the sight of her alone must have done the trick well enough, because he nodded to himself and turned back towards the door, squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation, and started to vibrate his hands. It wasn't easy, and it took longer than either of them would have liked, but he kept on vibrating them until the bolts holding the door in place finally started to come loose, throwing anxious glances over his shoulder all the while even though they were the only ones in the room. Iris couldn't blame him–she was sure they were being watched, too.

Finally, after what was probably only seconds but what felt like hours, the heavy metal door fell down with a loud _'crash', _onethat seemed to make the walls shake,that she could practically feel echo in her bones.Almost immediately red lights began flashing, and alarms blared so loud all around them it took everything in her not to clap her hands over her ears and sink to the ground to drown out the noise.

Barry gave her a look, and she found her own terror reflected in his eyes. She steeled herself, giving him a sharp nod and willing herself to be strong, for him as much as for herself. He nodded back and took her hand, squeezing it tight as they stepped out of the room together, out from the space they'd been stuck in for so long, to the sound of rushing footsteps–closer and closer with each passing second.

She turned to Barry one last time, wanting so badly to say those three little words, the ones that had been burning at the back of her throat since the second they'd started this. But it felt too much like a goodbye, like a warning that they might see each other again, and she couldn't bring herself to do it. There would be plenty of times to say it when they saw each other again, after this was all over. After they escaped. And they _would _see each other again, she'd make sure of it. So instead, she only said two.

"Be safe."

He opened his mouth to respond, and she could see everything he wanted to say in his eyes, even greater than all the fear. He wanted to say those three words just as much as she did, and she thought he just might be about to–but then his eyes widened in terror, and she didn't have to look behind her to know what he was seeing, because she could hear the pounding of footsteps rounding the corner. Instead of three words, or even two, all he had time to give her was one.

Fear gripped her heart, holding it tight as his fingers slipped away from hers, as she felt the ghost of his touch on her palm already fading, her hand cold and empty without his.

"_Run."_


	32. Growing Pains

_**Prompt: "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?"**_

**xXx**

He feels rather than hears her come into the room, taking in the way the couch cushions sink a little under her weight as she sits down next to him, without even having to look up from the book he's reading.

"Move your feet, nerd," she sighs, attempting to shove them away. He's sitting with his back pressed up against the armrest and he's got his knees pulled close to his chest, his book resting in his lap, but his legs are still so long that they're poking her legs and squishing her on other side of the couch.

"No," he says petulantly, turning the page in his book and keeping his gaze fixed resolutely on the writing in front of him. They mess with each other like this all the time—usually it ends in a shoving match, and one or both of them will end up on the floor. He's already mentally preparing himself for war.

When she responds, the anger in her tone catches him off guard. "Barry, _move_," she practically growls, "I am _not _in the mood for this today."

He blinks in surprise, gently setting his book down on the coffee table in front of them and swinging his legs over the edge of the couch, giving her space. He finally gets a good look at her and—well, she doesn't look _bad_. Iris never really looks bad to him, it's kind of something he's long since come to accept, but…she does look tired, and maybe even a little bit sick. And really, really put-out.

"What's up with you? You're in a…peppy…mood today," he quips, but his voice is genuinely concerned. It's not hard to pick up on when something's off with her, just like it takes her less than a second to figure out when something's going on with him. They know each other too well.

"Nothing," she grumbles moodily, sinking back further into the couch, wincing a little as she crosses her arms.

He knits his eyebrows together in concern. "Iris, there's definitely something. You haven't acted this cranky since Joe accidentally ate the last of those brownies we baked for your cheer-leading team's bake sale." He pursues his lips and waits for an answer, and when she groans in response and uncrosses her arms to wrap them tightly around her middle, his worry grows even more. "Are you hurt? Is your stomach bothering you?"

She turns her face away from him and mutters something under her breath, too quiet for him to hear.

"Sorry? I didn't quite catch that."

She mumbles it again, this time a little louder, but still too low for him to make out. "Iris—" he starts, but before he can ask again she claps her hands over her face in mortification. "I have _cramps_, Barry, okay? Oh my God," she hisses, the words muffled behind her palms but finally loud enough to understand.

"Oh," he blinks, confused at first, and then it dawns on him. "_Oh. _That_._"

The thing about growing up together is that, well…you grow up together. Which includes, for both of them, all the ugly and painful little bits that come along with puberty. Eleven is prime-time for that kind of thing, and as a result, she'd been there to witness his growth spurts, his gangly limbs that he still hadn't really quite grown into, his occasional break-outs, his general awkwardness first-hand. And then there were…other things, the things he's sure she knew about but they'd never discussed, including his increasing awareness as to just how unfortunate it was to be living in the same house as the girl he was in love with when…yeah.

Anyway, the point was that he'd been there to witness her fair share of growing-up, too—but nothing had been quite as painful as when she'd first gotten her period, right around after she'd turned twelve. It had been a chaotic week with only he and Joe to help her through it—although Joe had been surprisingly on top of things, and for Barry's part he'd spent hours in the library researching and reading up on it and relaying all that information to her (the science behind it was actually quite fascinating, really—a sentiment that she'd nearly punched him for when he'd excitedly expressed it to her) as well as buying her lots of chocolate. Luckily, they'd all made it out alive. They were usually pretty open about things, but just like there were topics about his own personal stuff that he'd rather avoid, this was one that she'd never really been comfortable talking about, either. And two years later, out of middle school and in to high school, it still hadn't stopped being an awkward conversation.

"Are they…bad?"

She peeks out at him from behind her fingers, and he can see her roll her eyes. "Uh, yeah, I'd say so. I've already taken two Motrin, but it hasn't kicked in yet."

He takes a deep breath, wondering what he can do to help. She doesn't usually bring it up, like, ever, and when she does he knows it's bad. He wrings his hands together nervously, trying to come up with some way to help, and when he speaks he speaks softly, careful not to exacerbate her anger, afraid he might say something that'll annoy her. "Do you…well…I mean…I could give you a massage?"

He lets out a sigh of relief when she drops her hands, when her gloomy expression lifts a little at the offer and a slow smile starts to make its way across her face. "Oooh, would you really? You're the best, Bear."

"Yeah," he nods, "'Course. _And _I'll let you have the rest of my ice-cream from the other night after, too. I think there's still some left in the freezer."

"Thanks, Barry." She beams at him, scoots a little closer, and then without warning, lays down on her back—right across his legs.

She lets her eyelids fall shut and winces again as a particularly bad cramp passes, sighing contentedly when his hands find her stomach. "Do your worst."

He nods even though she can't see it, adds a strained, _'I'll try'_, and gulps loudly. It takes a lot to keep his hands from shaking as he kneads soothing little circles around her tummy, all the while watching the pleased little smile that's playing on her lips, thanking God that her eyes are closed so that she can't see how _red_ his face must be right now.

_Yeah_, he thinks to himself._ Really didn't think this one through, did you?_

But she is smiling, and it looks like he's making her feel at least a little better. He can endure all this—the burning in his cheeks, the butterflies in his stomach, the uncomfortable awareness of her on top of him every time she fidgets and the praying that his body won't betray him, the overall feeling of wanting to explode—for as long as he needs to, as long as it means he's making her happy.


	33. I'll Cover You

_**Prompt: I'm in art class and I just opened a cupboard to find a tiny person (you) squished inside and you just looked at me and said "shh i'm hiding"**_

**xXx**

Art class is probably like…his least favorite subject. He tells himself with his head held high that it's just because it's not science, that it's not something he can solve or make sense of with logic or reasoning or research. It's abstract, it's open to interpretation, and it's just not his cup of tea. In reality, he knows that it's actually none of those things. He can claim he doesn't like art because it's subjective until he's blue in the face, but the truth is the only reason he's so opposed to it is because he's downright awful at it. It's sort of painful to sit through an entire class struggling to paint something as simple as a piece of fruit.

But an art class is required for the school's core curriculum, and his advisor had shot down his proposition that Chemistry counted as such–because '_technically_ it meant creating things in lab (and after all, wasn't art all about creating things?)'–, so it his choice had boiled down to either this or a performing arts class. In the end, he'd conceded that all things considered, the only thing he was worse at than making art was anything that required any semblance of coordination, so this was probably the slightly less humiliating option.

It's towards the middle of the period, and he's beyond frustrated, his brows furrowed in concentration, lips pursued tight, as he attempts to appropriately shade a square with the charcoal they've been given. He knows his occasional grunts and groans at his less-than-promising progress are starting to draw the attention of some of his classmates sitting around him, but he can't stop. And then the charcoal stick he's using–the fourth one he's gone through already today–snaps, and he makes a strangled noise as he slams his head on the desk in defeat, drawing the attention of his teacher.

"Problem, Allen?"

He feels his face heat up as everyone in the room turns to stare at him. "I–Uh, I'm sorry, Mr. Green. My charcoal broke again, and, uh…I'm out of it, now."

His teacher gives a long-suffering sigh as the rest of his classmates lose interest and return to their own work. "This is the third time this week, Allen. You're going to single-handedly deplete the school's charcoal supply if you keep this up. Go grab some a few new pieces from the supplies cupboard–you know the drill. And _please_ try to be more careful this time."

Barry nods hastily and slips off his stool, hurrying over to the all-too familiar cupboard near the sink where he knows most of the art supplies are kept, desperate not to draw any more attention to himself. He pulls open the door to the cupboard, prepared to hurriedly grab what he needs and return to his seat, and nearly has a heart attack when he finds himself looking down at a person, squished in the corner next to all the supplies. And not just any person either–that's Iris West, arguably one of the most popular girls in the school, that he's looking at right now. He clears his throat, unsure what to make of the situation.

"Um."

She blinks up at him in surprise as he stares down at her in bemusement, and as he opens his mouth again to ask she puts a finger to her lips and makes a _shh_-ing noise. He snaps his mouth shut, taking the hint, and glances left and right before kneeling down so that he's more at eye-level with her.

"Um," he repeats eloquently, gesturing to her predicament, "What…?"

"Don't ask," she sighs, and he raises an eyebrow at her. "Okay, right, you're gonna ask anyway. I'm playing Assassins and I found out that the person assigned to take me out was planning on getting me this period. So I'm hiding."

Her explanation only leaves him more confused, especially as to why she's in _here,_ in this room, in this…_cupboard…_of all places, if that's the case.

"Okay, but…I…uh…I don't think your in this class?" he phrases it like a question, as though he's not really sure, even though he so totally is. He would have known if Iris, the girl he's had the biggest, neon crush on since elementary school, who he's always admired from afar, who he's always super aware of whether she's two feet away or twenty, was in the same class as him. But he can't let her know that–she probably doesn't even know he exists.

She blinks at him again, and then hurriedly peeks her head out of the cupboard, making him stumble back a bit in surprise, and sweeps her gaze quickly around the room before shrinking back again. She shakes her head in disbelief. "Well, shit. You're right–I'm in the one before this. I didn't even hear the bell ring."

She bites her lip, considering, and gestures for him to come closer. He does, his heart speeding up as she leans closer to him, leaving their faces only inches apart. "What if they're still in the room, though?" she whispers, "People go hard in this game. How am I gonna escape unnoticed?"

He throws a glance over his shoulder to make sure no one has caught on to what's happening, and lets out a breath of relief to find that everyone is still absorbed in their work, and his teacher is back at his desk–probably playing Sudoku on his computer.

"No one seems to be paying attention. You might be able to sneakout?" he offers helpfully, not wanting to disappoint her. She shakes her head.

"Nah, too risky. Unless…ooh, I know!" her eyes light up as something seems to occur to her. "You're tall. You could cover me while I make a run for it!"

"Uh…sure," he says, baffled, not really sure what he's getting himself in to but unwilling to say no and squash her excitement. Which is how she ends up ducking behind him as he shuffles rather conspicuously out the door, shielding her from view, thanking God that the teacher's left it propped open. When they're far enough away from the classroom, she peeks out from around his side and surveys the area. "Is there anyone around?"

He shakes his head in amusement, checking left and right for good measure. "Nah, the coast is clear," he assures her, and she sighs in relief, finally coming out from behind him.

He should just bid her goodbye and head back to class, but curiosity gets the best of him. Besides, life is giving him an opportunity to talk to _Iris West_, to have an actual, one-on-one conversation with her, the girl he's liked for as long as he's even had the capacity to like someone, and he's not about to pass that up. "So, what exactly is this Assasins game?"

"Oh–sorry, I just assumed everyone knew. Well, you're assigned to a person, and a person is assigned to you, except you don't know who the person who's been assigned to kill you is, so you always have to be on your toes, and whoever stays in the longest and takes out their own target without getting killed wins. It's super stressful."

"Killed?" he echoes, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah," she nods, pulling a mini water gun out of her back pocket and brandishing it in front of him. "With this! Like, you just find your person and–_pew pew_."

He laughs at the sound effects she makes as she squirts the water gun at him, hitting him square on the forehead. He blinks the water out of his eyes as it trickles down his face. "Hey, uncalled for! Why the head-shot?"

She grins at him, reaching up to rub something off his forehead and then his nose, and as her fingers graze his skin he's pretty sure he might have stopped breathing. He gulps, his Adam's apple bobbing comically in his throat as his mind struggles to form a coherent sentence, only managing a "_Wha–?_"

"You have charcoal all over your face, dude," she explains, "Thought I'd do you a favor and clean some of it off for you."

"Ah." He manages a strained _thanks_, struggling to keep his cool, and when she opens her mouth to say something else, something behind him seems to catch her attention. Her eyes go wide in horror. "Oh no–I think I just saw someone hiding behind that wall over there. I need to g–wait, actually…you should come with me. You could be my bodyguard!" she says, hitting his arm excitedly, and not for the first time in the past, like, five minutes, she's completely taken him aback.

"Bodyguard…?"

"Yeah! Shield me from whoever's out to get me. I promise it won't be hard."

"I don't know…" he says, conflicted, glancing back at the classroom where he's supposed to be sitting in right now, working on shading his miserable square. On the one hand, he's never skipped class before, and the thought is sort of terrifying. On the other hand, it means spending time with her–which is a pretty gigantic plus. And then, as he's mulling it over, weighing out the pros and cons in his mind, she pouts at him at bats her eyelashes, clasping her hands together with an adorable little _'pleaaase–for me?'_, and any objections he might have had vanish on the spot. "Okay," he nods, feeling a little dazed, and before he can process what happening she beams at him and grabs his hand, tugging him down the hallway.

"Great! Come on then, let's head this way. Put as much distance between us and whoever that was as possible, just in case."

He stumbles along behind her as she starts to run, but she keeps her grip on his hand tight as she makes her way towards the door to the breezeway. This is the most rebellious thing he's ever done in school–and listening to her breathless little laugh, savoring her hand holding his, finally managing to fall in step with her, he finds that he sort of likes it. It's new, it's different, it's exhilarating. At least it is until they get caught.

"Hey–you two! Stop! No running in the hallways!" a voice calls from behind them, and Barry immediately freezes, coming to an abrupt halt as Iris keeps running, her grip on his hand slipping and causing her to stumble. She stops too when she realizes what's happened and turns, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Really, dude? You're giving in that easily? We could've outrun her!"

He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly, and opens his mouth to explain himself, but before he can say anything else he catches the sound of heels clacking against the tile floor close behind them. Almost in sync, they whip around towards the source of the noise to face a furious, mean-looking woman–a teacher he thinks he's seen around before–storming towards them. She comes to a stop in front of them, narrowing her eyes and wagging a finger at them in admonishment. "And just where do you two think you're going?"

Iris glances sideways at Barry, meeting his wide eyed gaze and giving him a placating look, as if reading his mind, and she communicates a silent _'I got this' _tocalm him down. Oddly enough, it sort of works.

"We were just–"

"Let me guess, another one of your little adventures, Ms. West?" the woman cuts her off, shaking her head in disapproval and jotting something down on the little notepad she's just extracted from her jacket pocket. Iris scuffs her shoe on the ground and just out her bottom lip before looking up at the woman through her eyelashes, with big, innocent-looking eyes.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Freeman, I really am. Things have been really stressful lately, and I'm dealing with a lot, so we were heading outside to get some fresh air. It was my idea though–if you're going to punish me, please don't punish my friend Barry here for it, too. He's a good guy–he was just trying to help me feel better."

Her voice is saccharine-sweet and she sounds so convincing that judging by the way Mrs. Freeman's expression starts to soften–an odd look on such a hard face–for a moment he thinks they might just get away with it. He has to look away as Iris tries to glance sideways at him again and catch his eye, partly because his heart is racing at the thought of her trying to defend him, at the fact that apparently she does know his name after all, and partly because he's afraid he might laugh at how thick she's laying on the charm and blow any chance of escape for the both of them. In the end, it doesn't matter anyway, because Mrs. Freeman shakes her head and sets her mouth in renewed dissatisfaction. "That's no excuse, Ms. West. I expect this kind of behavior from you," she pauses and then turns her hawk-eyed glare on Barry, "but I'm surprised at you for playing along with these shenanigans, young man."

Barry blushes and stares resolutely at the ground, mumbling an apology, briefly wondering how she could have expected better from him when she doesn't even know him. Still, getting in trouble for breaking the rules at schools is definitely not something he's used to, let alone getting scolded by a teacher like this. But when he feels something nudge his shoulder and glances to his side to find Iris looking at him, eyes apologetic, mouthing the words _"Sorry, Barry,"_ and he remembers that his long-time crush _knows his name_, he can't bring himself to regret it, not until Mrs. Freeman rips off two pieces of paper from her notepad and hands one to each of them. There's a lot of words scribbled on it but there's only one that matters, the evil little world that's scrawled out at the top in all capital letters like a death sentence. Detention.

"Both of you, get back to class immediately. And I will see you after school in detention, room 105. 3:00 sharp–do _not_ be late."

He nods meekly, and he tries not to feel too terrible about himself when he catches Mrs. Freeman shaking her head in disappointment at the two of them in the periphery of his vision, muttering something about 'troublemakers' under her breath. He refuses to lift his gaze from the ground until after he hears the clacking of her heels again, signalling her departure. Iris lets out a deep breath, and of all things, as soon as the teacher is out of earshot, starts to laugh. "Well, that was dramatic. She's always making such a big deal about the most pointless things, you know? You'd think we were under arrest or something. And who even says 'shenanigans' anymore?"

She's right, of course, but the word 'detention' is still bouncing around unpleasantly in Barry's head, and he can't bring himself to laugh with her, even though it'd normally be contagious. He's never been in detention before. He feels awful, like a bad student. He might be late to like, every other class, but otherwise he's never stepped a foot out of line. _Detention?_ The word makes him feel sick.

"Hey, you okay, Barry? I'm really sorry I got you in trouble–I didn't want that," she frowns, and he's about to tell her not to worry, that it's not her fault because it was his decision to go along with it too, and that even if it was her fault he still couldn't be mad at her if he tried. But then he registers the use of his name again, and his mind gets stuck on it, his thoughts abruptly changing course.

"I didn't know you knew my name," he says stupidly, kicking himself right after for blurting it out of the blue.

"Oh. Yeah, I know it…is that weird?" For the first time, she sounds nervous, unsure of herself, her voice lacking that usual easy confidence.

"No, no, not at all. I know yours, anyway–Iris West, right?"–he waits for her to nod, even though the notion that her name hasn't crossed his mind about a million times, that he hasn't had it memorized since second grade, that essentially everyone in the school doesn't know who she is too, is laughable–"I'm just surprised is all. I'm sort of a nobody."

She scoffs at him. "Oh, come on, that's totally not true. You're like, one of the smartest people in our year. Plus, you've kind of got a reputation for being perpetually late."

"Oh. Right. Thanks…I think?" His face feels hot and he knows it must be bright red–whether from being flattered over her first comment or embarrassed over her second, he's not quite sure.

There's the faintest hint of a smirk on her lips as she pats his shoulder. "Don't mention it. Now get back to class–we should get out of here in case Mrs. Freeman comes back. She's on the warpath today."

"Yeah," he says, his mood plummeting, miserable at the sudden reminder of their recent unpleasant encounter. He really should be leaving–one detention is more than enough, he thinks he'd probably have a heart attack if he was given another in the same day. Before he makes to leave, he hesitates for a moment, unsure of what to say and desperately trying to work up the courage to maybe ask for her number, but in the end all he can think of is a lame "Um, bye?" He turns quickly on his heel before she can see the pathetic look on his face and starts to make his way back to class, his head hanging in shame.

"I guess I'll see you later, then. After school. We'll make it fun, I promise–I'm gonna make it up to you for getting you stuck there in the first place," she calls out after him. At the sound of her voice, his head shoots up in surprise, and he turns to look at her just in time to catch her winking at him.

"Yeah. Yeah, see you then," he breathes, managing a smile, his spirits lifting again. As she smiles back before turning and pelting down the hall in the other direction, he feels that familiar swooping sensation in his stomach, that particular fluttering feeling one he gets whenever he sees her face light up like that, except this time it's so strong it leaves him a little light headed because she's smiling at _him_ and _for_ him andthey're going to be spending more time together later and why didn't he think of that in the first place because_ oh my god_.

He can't even bring himself to feel guilty when he walks back into art class, his teacher's heavy glare at his back as he makes his way back to his seat with a wide, goofy grin plastered across his face. He picks up his charcoal with renewed vigor, paying no mind to the amused and slightly put-out stares of his classmates as he whistles to himself while he works, thinking that maybe detention won't be such a bad thing, after all.


	34. All the Right Words

_**Prompt: Westallen as kids, Iris comforting Barry after a particularly traumatizing run in with some bullies**_

**xXx**

Her first clue that something isn't right is that Barry doesn't meet her at her locker like he always does, one of the only instances he's ever consistently on time, because him being late would mean making her late, and when it comes to her he's always managing impossibles. Her second is that Tony and his crew are laughing and high-fiving about something when she passes them in the hallway on her way to class, already late herself anyway after finally conceding that Barry wasn't showing up.

She spends the first ten minutes of class tapping her foot nervously, impatiently, worrying her bottom lip, persistently clicking her pen to keep herself occupied to the point where the teacher has to pause in the middle of her lesson to glare at her and tell her to_ be quiet. _She's not even trying to pretend that she's paying attention to what's being written on the board, and instead keeps her eye on the door, willing him to come barging into the room any second with a steady string of excuses and apologies for their teacher at the ready.

But he doesn't show up at all, and he would have told her if he was leaving school early for some reason. Besides, this is science class that he's missing, and Barry _never_ misses science class if he can help it, and that's what really sets off the alarm bells in her head. She tells the teacher that she has to go to the bathroom, insists that it's an emergency, and slips out the door before she can be met with any objections so that she can go look for him.

It's in between periods, so no one will be in the locker rooms–and besides, she doesn't really care much about getting caught, anyway. She's got more important things to worry about, so she quickly sweeps her gaze left and right before ducking into the boy's locker room, hoping that she won't catch some unfortunate soul in any state of undress. "Barry?" she says it first in a whisper, but no one seems to be around. She's learned from experience, however, that this doesn't _actually_ mean that no one is there, and clears her throat, calling out his name a little louder.

She doesn't get a response, but when the room falls silent again and all she's left to is her own noisy, concerned thoughts buzzing away in her head, she hears a muffled, sniffling sort of sound, and immediately gets to work, running her fingers along the row of lockers and peeking through the tiny little slits on each one. Mostly she just sees lots of sweaty, abandoned socks and shoes, old t-shirts and gym-bags–or at least that's what they look like in the limited light she has–and she wrinkles her nose in distaste. Finally, her eyes land on a shape that she's sure is definitely not just a pair of shoes, but that looks much more like a hurt little boy with his shoulders hunched and his head buried in his hands. She can just make out the sound of his labored breathing. _Gotcha._

Her gaze flicks to the padlock keeping him in there, and she sighs sadly as she twists it–left 5, right 20, left 7–hating the fact that she has the combination memorized because of this very reason. She pops it off and places it on the bench beside her, pulling the locker door open and revealing him squished in there, sitting at the bottom with his knees pulled tight to his chest, head bowed, shoulders shaking. He doesn't even look up when she kneels down in front of him and pokes his leg.

"Barry. Look at me."

When he still doesn't lift his head, or even acknowledge her presence, she sighs, and reaches out a hand to tilt his chin up. She gasps when the light falls on his face–red and swollen and puffy, already starting to bruise. "Oh, Bear–"

He clenches his jaw tight and averts his eyes, but she can see that he's hurt, embarrassed, and thoroughly miserable. She doesn't relinquish her grip on his chin, though, his tears making their way down his cheeks and onto her hands and making her palms wet. She waits as long as he needs, until she knows he's ready to talk, until she feels him finally lean a little into her touch. "What happened?" she whispers, finally letting her hand drop and scooting closer to where he's huddled. He squeezes his eyes shut, and when he speaks it's in short, gasping breaths. She feels a sharp pang in her chest. It always breaks her heart to see him crying like this.

"I was–I was the last one to finish my laps today in gym, so when I came in to the locker room I thought it'd be empty but–but they were there waiting for me and," he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and Iris lays a reassuring and on his knee, encouraging him to go on. "They–they tried to get me to hit back–hit this other kid and I–I couldn't do it, Iris, I didn't _want _to, and I told them no, and then Tony was holding me down and he–he said that I was a liar, that I had to have it in me, because–because it runs in my family, and I'd–I'd end up just like my dad because he–he was a murderer but he's–he's _not_ Iris, I swear he's not, and I won't–I'm not–" he breaks off in a sob, unable to finish.

"Barry, shh, calm down," Iris soothes, momentarily tamping down her fury at Tony and his gang of bullies and making a mental note to confront them later. They were threatened by her, after all, especially when she was pissed–and she is more than pissed. But Barry needs her right now, and anger won't really help him. She squeezes his shoulder and tries to smile for him, not because she's anywhere near happy at the moment but because she knows he likes her smiles.

"Hey–it's okay, I believe you. You know I always do."

"Really?" Barry sniffles, finally meeting her gaze, eyes full of hesitation. She rolls her eyes and uses the hand she's got on his shoulder to shove him lightly, affectionately.

"Don't be stupid. 'Course I do. I've told you that before," she feels a rush of relief when he manages a sheepish smile at that, and plows on before he can have any other doubts. "And you don't have a mean bone in your body, Barry Allen. Don't listen to Tony. He's just jealous because he knows you're a better person, and he's just a big, useless bully. He knows you would never stoop to his level."

That makes him smile in earnest, wavering and watery but genuinely appreciative and just a little bit more hopeful. "Thanks, Iris. You always know the right things to say."

She shrugs and leans over, pulling him into a hug. "What can I say–it's a talent of mine," she teases, but then she holds him a little tighter and adds, "It's true, though. What I said." She can sense that he's still upset about it, that he's still clearly hung up on Tony's remarks, but she feels him nod against her shoulder, anyway.

"Thank you," he repeats, and as she moves to pull back she notices him wince, and wonders just how much damage they've done this time. She stands up and holds out her hand, cocking her head to the side in a silent _'Let's go.' _He gives her another tentative smile and accepts it, allowing her to pull him out of the cramped little space of the locker and onto his feet.

Once he's standing in front of her and she can get a better, fuller look at him in the light, she surveys him up and down with narrowed eyes, not at all happy with what she sees. She pursues her lips and begins pulling him towards the exit of the locker room, never relinquishing her grip on his hand, and shaking her head in renewed anger–though not at all at him. "Come on. I'm taking you to the nurse's office. You need to get checked out."

She stumbles a bit when he doesn't fall into step behind her as usual, her fingers still laced with his, and turns to face him in confusion. "_Come on_," she repeats, this time more insistently, but he just shakes his head.

"I can't go to the nurse, Iris. She'll ask questions, she always does. And then Tony's gonna find out somehow and it's just gonna be even worse next time this happens and I–I can't. Please don't make me."

Iris sighs in frustration, not because he's being difficult, but because unfortunately, she knows he's right. She considers making an argument, telling him that they'll figure something out afterward, but she knows he's not going to budge. She bites her lip, considering. "Fine. No nurse–but I'm not letting you go back to class like this."

He raises an eyebrow at her, smiling sadly. "Where else am I supposed to go? Joe's at work right now, right? He can't exactly pick me up."

Iris shakes her head. "True, but the school isn't too far from home. We could walk. It's sort of nice out, anyway."

"Iris–" Barry starts, frowning, and she knows he's about to tell her that she doesn't have to do that, that she should just get back to class, that he'll be fine, that she shouldn't worry about him. None of which she wants to hear.

"I'm not leaving your side, mister," she pokes him in the chest, and then makes a face at him. "Besides, I'm not exactly opposed to the idea of skipping math class today, anyway. We're starting pre-algebra, I think."

"Okay," is his only response, because he knows there's no arguing with her when she's made up her mind. He tries to sound put-out, but she can see the gratitude in his eyes, and he can't hide the hint of a smile that's playing on his lips.

"Come on," she says, tugging at the hand she still hasn't let go of, giving it another reassuring squeeze, and this time he follows. "We better get going before classes are let out so that we can sneak out the back."

She wonders briefly if her dad will be angry when he gets the call that they've skipped class to leave school early. The answer is most definitely yes, but she thinks he'll probably be sympathetic once he knows the reason why–and Barry is clearly sporting the evidence to show it. Either way, though, she doesn't really care, as long as it means she's there for Barry when he needs her. No math for the day is just an added bonus.


	35. Dance With Me

_**Prompt: "Wanna dance?"**_

**xXx**

He swirls the ice around in his glass moodily with his pinky finger, occasionally shooting glances towards the dance floor, his eyes always finding her with ease. She's like a magnet, easily drawing his attention no matter where she is in the crowd. Like his focus is lightning and she's the lightning rod, always has been. But anyway–he's being dramatic. It's just that it's nearly impossible to take his eyes off of her right now, tonight, when she's looking like this. It's always sort of a struggle for him to take his eyes off her whenever they're in the same room, actually, but tonight is a little different. Tonight is even worse.

Because she's in this agonizingly tight floor-length emerald-green gown and her hair is swept away from her face in an elegant ponytail and she looks so happy and so radiant dancing and laughing and twirling this way and that.

He had known she'd look amazing in it. It's not like it had been a surprise, because a) she looked good in just about everything, and b) he had been there with her when she had gotten it. She had dragged her with him to help her pick out the perfect prom dress, insisting that he give her his most honest opinions, and he'd only very weakly protested, because in reality he hadn't minded at all. It was hard, though, when everyone assumed he was Iris's date, cooed over him for being "such a supportive boyfriend" as she made her way through each store, piling dress after dress into his arms. Some of the places they'd been to had even tried to get him to buy matching ties before he could finally convince them he was Just A Friend. Yeah, not fun.

Iris had also deemed him Supremely Unhelpful anyway, because nearly every dress she modeled for him and asked his opinion on he'd just trip over his words, blush a lot, and insist that she looked "beautiful" or "amazing" or "really great," or, her favorite, "wow". She'd laugh and roll her eyes and tell him "I get that you're trying to be nice, Bear, but you can't say that for every dress I try on. That defeats the whole point of picking the best one. I won't be offended if you're honest."

Except he _had_ been being honest, really, because she'd looked perfect no matter what she was wearing. Still, looking at her now, he thinks that this one had definitely been the best choice, after all. Green really is her color. And then–shit, she's excusing herself from her date, she's making her way over to wear he's sitting, and he quickly averts his attention to the table right in front of him, refusing to lift his gaze out of embarrassment and the fear that she'll catch him staring.

He's really starting to wish he hadn't turned down Larry Fisher's offer to sample his special spiked punch.

"Please don't tell me you're planning on drinking that. That is sooo unsanitary."

He figures it's safe to look up again at the sound of her voice, and he lifts his gaze to meet hers. It's all he can do not to be too obvious as he sucks in a deep breath, because it's one thing to admire her from afar, but up close like this, well…_Focus, Barry_. He tells himself. Right. Focus. Don't give anything away. He dips his fingers in the glass one last time to clear his head, lifts them away and proceeds to flick the cold water at her. "Barry!" she squeals and swats his arm, and he just laughs and then sticks out his tongue. "You're going to ruin my dress!"

"It's just _water_, Iris," he rolls his eyes, "And I'll have you know my hands are perfectly clean, thank-you-very-much."

"You sure about that? You did bring _Becky Cooper_ as your date. I'm not so sure they're clean if you've had them all over–"

"Iris!" He yelps, turning red, whipping his head quickly back and forth to make sure no one else is close enough to hear her. He relaxes a bit when he's sure no one is around to eavesdrop, but he can still feel his cheeks burning.

Iris laughs and shakes her head at him. "Relax, I'm just messing with you. Sort of. Maybe." Her eyes flicker to the empty seat next to him, and she raises an eyebrow in question. "Speaking of the devil…where is Becky?"

Barry shrugs unconcernedly. "She bailed when I told her I didn't want to dance. Wasn't too happy with me. She's probably over there somewhere," he sighs, gesturing vaguely to the dance floor. He dully notes how easy it had been for him to seek Iris out in the crowd, but Becky is just another face loss within the mass of people swaying to the beat. He almost feels guilty. Almost.

"Oh. That's…well…that's…" Barry watches as Iris squints towards the dance floor and purses her lips, like she's fighting to hold something back. He rolls his eyes again.

"Just say it, Iris. I can see it all over your face."

"Fine._ I told you so I told you she would do this,_" she says all in one breath, like it's a weight off her chest, like she's been holding it in for a while. Which, he supposes, she has. For some reason, his relationship had never quite received the Iris West stamp of approval. "I _told _you she was a nightmare."

"I mean, I can't really blame her," Barry concedes, and he supposes the reason he's not upset that the girl he's sort-of dating has more-or-less abandoned him for the night to dance with other guys has a lot to do with the fact that he doesn't really care. "I'm not really much fun at these kinds of things, anyway. I wouldn't want her to be stuck with me all night at this table. Like, seriously, _I_ don't even want to be stuck with me all night at this table. It's good she's having fun, though."

Iris huffs and puts a hand on her hip, and he can't help the warm feeling bubbling in his chest at how offended she is on his behalf. "Barry Allen. How many times do I have to tell you not to sell yourself short like that? Any girl would be lucky to spend the night hanging out with such an amazing guy as you. It's her loss."

He ducks his head, but he can't hide the smile spreading across his face like it always does when she gives him one of her pep-talks. Plus, coming from her, even if it isn't true it still means a whole lot. "You're just saying that. Seriously, people come to prom to dance and have fun, not mope at a table by themselves. It's perfectly understandable that she bailed."

Iris huffs disapprovingly, and he watches as something lights up in her eyes, knowing from experience that it means she's just gotten an idea. "Well, you don't have to sit here all by yourself, then. Come on, wanna dance?"

"Did you not just hear me when I told you what I said to Becky? I don't dance. And you know that already."

Iris waves a dismissive, perfectly manicured hand at him. "Let me rephrase–do you wanna dance _with me_? And besides, that's because Becky gave up on you too easily. You know I would never do that."

"Really now?" Barry raises an eyebrow at her, as she continues to tap her foot and regard him expectantly.

"Oh, come on. I know you said no to her but I'm talking about dancing with me_,_ your best friend in the whole wide world, not Beck-_eww_. We'll make it fun. You know you want to."

And yeah, that's an important distinction. Because his resistance has always been significantly lower in just about everything when it comes to her. So it's only really half-heartedly that he shakes his head, and Iris must sense that he doesn't really mean it, because she grins at him knowingly and grabs his hand, tugging at it to get him up out of his seat.

"Iriiiis," he whines, but he's not really putting up much of a fight, and it doesn't take long for him to heave a long-suffering sigh and stand up along with her, his legs protesting from sitting down for so long. "Alright, fine. Lead the way."

Her grin widens and she pulls him along with her to the dance floor. He stumbles a bit at first, but it doesn't take long for him to fall easily in step behind her. And, of course, because he's literally got the worst luck in the world, when she pulls him to a stop in front of her at the edge of the crowd so that they're both bathed in the light from the flashing lights above and everything comes into focus, he realizes that the previous song has just ended and one of those infamous slow songs has just started. _Great. Fabulous_. Why do these sort of things always happen to him?

Iris seems pretty unfazed by the abrupt change in tempo, though–she just laughs it off and rests a hand on his shoulder, grabbing his opposite hand pressing their arms together, pretending to waltz.

"Are you…are you sure you're date won't mind…?" he asks, because literally everyone else around them are couples, and he's pretty sure that that's what this particular song is meant for.

"Nah," Iris laughs, and whether it's true or not Barry finds he doesn't really care, anyway. "He'll live. Besides, we're just having fun, right? It's still dancing. I finally got you up out of your seat–I'm not letting you go that easily."

Barry shakes his head fondly as Iris guides him around the dance floor, pretending to dip him and making him play along, completely off-beat with the music and sticking out like a sore thumb amidst all the happily swaying couples around them. He knows people are staring, but after a while he doesn't really care. If Becky is glaring at him, he doesn't notice. If Iris's date is glaring at him, he doesn't notice–he's too wrapped up in her. And it _is _prettyfun, after all.

As the song comes to an end, fading into something much more up-beat, she rests a hand against his chest and looks up at him imploringly, the light dancing in her eyes. "I should've asked before–I feel bad. I was the one who convinced you to come. Are you really having a miserable time tonight?" she asks, grabbing his hand and giving it a little squeeze, and from this close he can see the little crease in her forehead as the corners of her lips turn down in concern.

He grins and holds the hand she's got in his a little tighter, lifts it along with his so that it's over her head as he spins her around underneath it, smile widening at the surprised little laugh she lets out. She stumbles a little in her heels, dizzy, when she comes to a stop in front of him, but he catches her easily. There's really no other answer he can think to give when she's beaming at him like that, when she's this close and she's gripping his arm and he sort of wants to stay like this forever. And so he answers her truthfully.

"Not anymore."


	36. Distractions

_**Prompt: "Come over here and make me." and "Teach me how to play?"**_

**xXx**

Barry still doesn't own a car. It's not that he doesn't know_ how_ to drive, but he insists that there really isn't any point when he can just run everywhere, and it'd just be wasting money. Which is a stupid argument, really, because in all honesty they're both pretty well off in their respective fields, but it's true that he really doesn't need one (and on the rare occasions that he does he just borrows hers). Besides, she thinks it has more to do with the fact that he can't push the car past 50 MPH in the city, not to mention all the traffic he'd have to deal with, and he doesn't do slow.

The point being, it's never the presence or absence of a car in the driveway that lets her know that he's home. Even though it's usually later than her, because in addition to work at CCPD he's got his whole 'saving the city' thing to take care of, whenever he does beat her back he always tries to make up for it by making her favorite foods for dinner. When she gets off work late and walks through the front door, immediately catching a whiff of something delicious, the lingering scent of a home-cooked meal, that's how she knows he's there.

Her stomach growls in anticipation, and she's so hungry and exhausted that she almost makes a beeline straight for the kitchen. But just as she locks the door behind her and shrugs out of her coat, she hears a frustrated _'Oh, come on!'_ from the living room, and she abruptly changes course, her curiosity momentarily outweighing her appetite.

She leans against the door-frame, wondering what on earth Barry could be doing, and whether or not he's remembered to enforce the twins' _'no-you-can't-stay-up-late-tonight-you-have-school-tomorrow-and-that's-final'_ curfew this time around. (Although she suspects he more than likely doesn't actually _forget_–he just caves easily when it comes to their kids. He's soft like that, always has been. And she's not strict, really, but they definitely balance each other out well, always have.)

Her wandering gaze finds him sitting on the couch–which is odd in and of itself, considering he never manages to sit still for long when he's by himself–a controller gripped so tightly in his hands his knuckles are turning white, staring intently at the TV before him and–playing a videogame? The sight is so strange it makes her snicker, which must alert him to her presence, because although he doesn't turn around he inclines his upward head a bit and calls out to her over his shoulder.

"Dinner's on the table. I left a plate out for you, but you might need to heat it up–it's probably cold now."

Instead of eating right away, she makes her way to the couch, stands behind it and drapes her arms around his neck, planting a kiss on his cheek. "Whatcha doin'?"

"Hmm?" he cocks an eyebrow, distracted, and Iris laughs at the intensity with which he's staring at the screen, the force with which he's jamming down the buttons. "Oh, uh, Dawn couldn't get past this level in her game–you know, the one we got her for Christmas–so I promised her I'd try it for her."

She glances at the empty plate on the coffee table and then takes in the tired look in his eye, the way it's starting to twitch like it does when he's been stationary for too long, the determined set of his jaw and way he's bouncing his knee and fidgeting his legs. This is his _'I am not letting this go'_ look. Which means he's more than likely been at this for a while.

"Ah. And how long ago was that, exactly?"

He finally turns around to glare at her, catching the familiar amusement coloring her tone, and the result is a _crash_ and a _boom_ followed by a sad-sounding _'Game Over'_ as the level he's supposed to be beating comes to a premature end.

"A while, okay? She and Don are asleep now. Or at least they should be. They were when I last checked. But _look_–" he says, gesturing angrily to the screen, "You made me lose! I really had it that time. I was so close."

"Uh huh." Iris raises an eyebrow, entirely unconvinced. "Sure. How about you teach me how to play? Let me try and see if I have any better luck. You looked like you were getting a little frustrated there, honey, I think it's time for a break."

"No," Barry sighs, pressing the 'start new game' button, "No, I have to do this."

She heaves a sigh of her own and gives his shoulder a squeeze. "Come on, please? Now you've got me curious. It can't be_ that _hard. I mean, it's a kid's game, right?"

"No," Barry repeats petulantly, and deftly yanks the controller away as Iris tries to make a grab for it from behind. "I mean, yes, but it shouldn't be–it's ridiculously difficult. Anyway, I've almost got it, I swear."

Iris pouts and crosses her arms, holds them tight against her chest. "Admit it," she huffs, "You're just afraid I'll beat it when you can't."

"Oh, that is absolutely what I'm afraid of. Now shush, I'm trying to concentrate."

His admission mollifies her for a good forty-five seconds before she loses patience again, because it's clear he's not making any progress, and he probably won't be any time soon. She lets out an exaggerated sigh and flicks him on the back of the head, repeatedly. He doesn't even blink. The last of her patience drains away and she stomps her foot in frustration.

"Barry, seriously, just hand it over already! Watching you struggle through this is honestly painful. I probably would have already figured it out myself in the time you've been refusing to give this up."

"Nope. Not gonna happen." The character he's apparently in charge of just barely swerves out of the way from an oncoming attack–from bananas?–and he curses as it's HP bar dips into the red. "If you want me to give it to you, you're going to have to come over here and make me."

Which is decidedly the wrong thing to say, because that is exactly what she does. His back is toward her and the couch is between them, so he can't see the devilish grin that slowly makes its way across her face, the dangerous light of an idea that sparks in her eye. Although he certainly takes notice of her a moment later, when she's rounded the couch and standing right in front of him, grinning mischievously and blocking his view. He tries to crane his neck to see past her side, but she just follows his movements, blocking him this way and that as he attempts to find an opening to see what he's doing on the screen.

"Hey, quit it! You're sabotaging my very near-successful attempt, here! Iris–I can't–_see_–"

And then, to put the icing on the cake, she climbs on top of him, makes sure she has his full attention as she straddles him, taking pleasure in the deep, shaky breath he sucks in as she starts to trail her fingers up his thigh.

"Iris, come on–" he says weakly, voice strained and heavy, barely attempting to look past her anymore as she leans in and kisses his neck… "–this is a very serious matter and you're distracting–" …she makes her way up his jaw, smiles against his lips, tugs at his belt with the hand that's not silently creeping toward the controller…"–okay, wait, on second thought, don't stop that–hey!"

Barry splutters indignantly as Iris gracefully plucks the controller out of his slackened grip. Honestly, for a guy who always has to be on high alert, ready to deal with anything at a moment's notice, he's so easily distractible. When it comes to the right things, at least. Actually, just when it comes to _her _at all_, _really–a fact she's glad to know hasn't dimmed one bit over all the years they've been together. She rolls over and flops down next to him, the controller safely in one hand, a grin spreading across her face as she pumps a triumphant fist in the air with the other.

"Victory!"

The look on Barry's face as he rolls his eyes is a tormented mixture of annoyance and reluctant admiration. "You know what, I take it back. You're not going to beat this level, because you play dirty. And cheaters never win, Iris."

"Whatever." She ignores him and presses the start button, tucking her feet beneath her legs and sitting cross-legged, shifting so that she's comfortable. She flashes him a teasing smirk, relishing in her success, and leans out of reach of his arm as he attempts to elbow her in the side. A playful laugh escapes her lips when she catches him sticking his tongue out at her in the periphery of her vision, and she returns the sentiment by flipping him the bird, eyes glued to the screen all the while. "Sulk all you want, Allen–it's my time to shine now."

In the end, it takes her two tries to complete the level compared to his twenty-three failed attempts. He tries really hard to stay annoyed, but mostly he's just impressed, because really, and quote, _'when is he ever not in awe of his beautiful, talented wife?' _Of course, just because he's impressed and just because she appreciates his flattery–which he so wonderfully expresses in more ways than one (really, by the time they finally make it off the couch and she finally gets to her dinner it's cold as ice)–doesn't mean she's above rubbing it in his face all night, slipping it into conversation whenever she gets the chance, like she used to do when they were kids. They're still Barry and Iris, after all, and these kinds of things will never change.


	37. Love Interest

_**Prompt: "I have a key to the theatre, and sometimes I go there when I need to think. Apparently so do you" **_

**xXx**

He shouldn't be here. He shouldn't be here even though this is his favorite place to be, to think, to–well, to brood. Not that he's a particularly broody person, but today is a little different. Because he's under very specific instructions from one very adamant Felicity Smoak_ not_ to do any brooding. None. Nada. Not allowed. Instructions that also happen to be firmly backed up by his friends Cisco and Caitlin.

"Barry Allen," Felicity had huffed, playing with the sound controls as he'd lounged in the swivel chair next to her, spinning around in anxious circles and watching her do her thing, after he'd asked her for about the seventeenth time if he'd done alright. Cisco had given her a thumbs up from the stage to let her know the tech was working properly, his trademark headset resting around his neck, and she'd nodded her thanks before rounding on Barry. "I already _told_ you, and Cisco has already told you, and Caitlin has already told you, and if you ask _one more time _I'm gonna bust your eardrums in here. You were amazing. You need to stop being so hard on yourself and have a little faith–I really think you have a shot at this."

That at least had gotten him to smile, eased the nervous shaking of his hands just a bit. "You really think so?" he'd ventured hopefully, almost daring to believe it, before yet another doubt had bubbled up in his chest. "Or are you all just saying that because you're my friends and you're, like, obligated to say that by virtue of the–the, I don't know, code of friendship?"

Felicity had rolled her eyes "First of all, that's not a thing. Second of all, yes, I really think so. We all do. And evidently so do the people in charge of casting, since you made callbacks tomorrow. So please, stop stressing so much about this." She laid a comforting hand over his, trying and failing to stare him down. "Promise me you're not going to spend all night brooding about it, okay? You were_ fine_. You're gonna be fine. And you're gonna kill it tomorrow too. So! No brooding allowed."

He'd let out a sigh and rubbed a hand down his face, staring down at his feet as he'd responded. "Yeah…yeah, I promise. Thanks."

Just then Cisco had come barging in, Caitlin hovering close behind him, insisting on grabbing a bite from Big Belly Burger on their way home.

"Come on, I'm your ride back, anyway, so you really don't have much of a choice." Felicity had rolled her eyes, fighting back a smile as she'd exchanged a look with Caitlin. "I mean, I'm starving here, guys. It's almost six already, can you believe it? The late nights are already starting, and auditions aren't even done yet."

"Tell me about it." Felicity had nodded, hopping up from her seat and grabbing her jacket and backpack. Barry had remained rooted to the spot. Just the mention of food made his stomach roll, with his nerves still through the roof, and he'd swallowed down the bile he felt rising in his throat.

"You guys go ahead without me. I'm just gonna…hang around for a bit. I can lock up."

Felicity had narrowed her eyes at him. "Barry…"

"_Felicity_," he'd mimicked her tone of disapproval, dodging out the way as she'd attempted to step on his foot. "It's fine, really. I can walk back to my house–it's not far. The fresh air will be good for me. Clear my head and stuff."

"Whatever, dude, you're missing out," Cisco had cut in, shaking his head, "just make sure you eat _something _tonight, okay? I've got my eye on you. Not literally, obviously, but…metaphorically…?"

Barry had laughed and given Cisco a mock salute before waving the three of them off. "I'll be fine. Really–go."

And they had, but not before Felicity had turned around to point her finger at him one last time.

"Remember what we talked about, Barry. No brooding. It's not a good look on that cute face of yours."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I promised, remember?"

Then they'd finally left, and that had been that.

And yet here he is now, perched on the edge of the stage, long legs dangling off the side, alone with his thoughts in a completely empty theater, and most definitely brooding.

What if he royally fucks up his callback tomorrow? What if he actually screwed up today and they're just taking pity on him? What if he's awful? What if this was just the biggest, dumbest idea he's ever had and what if he's not cut out for this in the first place? What if he actually does get the part but _she _hates him? What if–

His increasingly anxious train of thought is abruptly derailed at the sound of the heavy doors at the entrance to the theater clattering shut, and when he looks up to see who's just entered, expecting it to maybe be Felicity or Cisco or Caitlin coming back to check on him, or maybe the janitor coming to kick him out, he nearly has a heart attack. Because the 'she' in question is walking down the aisle in between the rows of seats and making her way toward the stage where he's sitting, surprise written all over her face, and looking directly at him.

"Sorry–I didn't think anyone else would be in here. Uh, what are you doing here so late?" The way she says it isn't rude, just genuinely curious, and he wracks his brain for something clever to respond with. Which is really hard when he's also focusing on breathing right.

"I could ask you the same question," he says, feigning a calm he doesn't feel in the slightest. Iris West is walking toward him. Looking at him. Talking to him. Acknowledging his existence. _Is he dreaming? _"But, I, ah…this is my thinking spot, I guess. I like being here when no one's around."

"Ah. Makes sense." She turns something over in her fingers, the light from overhead gleaming off of it and catching his eye. It's a key, he notices. Not surprising that she'd have one, really–it's common knowledge that she's the favorite of Central's theater program, always snagging lead roles, and can pretty much get away with anything. And yet, from the stories he's heard about her, that Felicity–who's actually _friends _with her–has told him, and from what he's noticed over all these years admiring her from afar, she's somehow…not a diva. Well, that's not quite true–she_ is _a diva, but, like, the nice kind. The really nice kind. It's sort of impossible not to like her. "Same, actually. That's what I came her to do."

He fidgets a bit under her gaze as she comes to a stop before him, distracted by the view. "Oh. Um. Cool." _Smooth, Allen. Real smooth._

"So how'd you get in here after hours? I mean, everyone's gone home."

"I used to be in tech crew and stuff. You know–I did a lot of work behind the scenes, like, I was in charge of the lighting and all. So they gave me a key during the last show to access stuff when and I needed to and I–well, let's just say I might have…forgotten…to give it back."

"Oh," Iris blinks at him in surprise and tilts her head, regarding him with curiosity. "So that's where you've been hiding all this time. Behind the scenes."

His eyebrows pull together in confusion, and he's just about ask when she moves closer to the stage. He's momentarily distracted by the sudden racing of his heart as she tucks her key into her back pocket and puts her hands on the smooth wood next to him, pushing herself up and clambering ungracefully onto the stage before finally managing to right herself, swinging her legs over the edge so that they're nearly touching his. He swallows hard and licks his lips, fighting to keep his cool. But dear God, she's _so_ close.

"Wh–what do you mean, hiding?"

She shoves his shoulder, bumping into him playfully, as though they're not technically strangers, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying something stupid or making a complete fool out of himself. Felicity had warned him that Iris was a very tactile person, super touchy and affectionate, but he hadn't realized that also extended to people she'd only just met. It's not her fault she doesn't know exactly what it's doing to him, of course.

"I saw you at auditions today, dude. You were really good–I was wondering why I'd never seen you before."

He ducks his head to hide his smile, because he can feel himself grinning like an idiot, the heat in his cheeks matching the warm-and-fuzzy feeling that's settling in his chest, easing his nerves for just about the first time today. "Oh, uh–wow, thanks. That means a lot." He very narrowly restrains himself from tacking on a _'coming from you'_. She grins at him and holds up her hands.

"Hey, I'm just stating the truth. I wouldn't be surprised if you got the part, even though you're new. I am curious though…why now? Why not last year, or the year before?"

"Well, I didn't want to miss out, because most of my friends do tech crew, but…"

He's stalling, of course, attempting to come up with a believable excuse. Anything but the truth, really, because he'd rather get struck by lightning than admit that the real reason he's trying out for this particular part is because this particular part is the love interest of the part that _she's_ trying out for, the part she's been a shoe in for it since the day auditions were announced. He's seen this play multiple times. Read the screenplays, watched his favorite scenes over and over again on youtube, the whole nine yards. Point being, he'd get to kiss her more than once. He'd get to spend time with her. Hold her hand, sing duets with her, and–wow. Yeah. Why indeed.

"But I, ah, I just figured I'd try something new. And I like singing, so, that's…that's that."

It's not a complete lie, because he _is_ trying something new–he's never sung in front of a crowd before, save for his shampoo bottles and his bar-of-soap microphone. And he does enjoy it. The singing, that is, not necessarily the crowds. Acting, too. He's just…always been too afraid. Always ends up second guessing himself. But this is his senior year, and he swore he'd turn things around. Swore it'd be the year he'd stop sitting on the sidelines, letting every opportunity pass him by. Swore it'd be the year he'd actually talk to his long-time–like, way back since 6th grade long-time–crush, the one and only Iris West. Which, hey, he's already making progress there. Maybe things are looking up?

"Huh. That's really cool. You know, switching things up like that. Finding out what you like. I mean, I've been at this for as long as I can remember and I'm still figuring it out. Sometimes I wonder if all this," she waves her arms around, gesturing to the stage behind them and then to the empty theater before them, "is really my calling."

"It is."

His answer is so blunt and so immediate, tumbling off of his tongue before he can stop it, that it's not surprising that she raises an eyebrow at him in question. He hastens to explain, growing increasingly flustered as he trips over his words. "That is–I mean, not if you don't want it to be, obviously–you're just–you're really good. Like super good. Amazing, really, and–okay, wow, I'm going to stop talking now…"

Iris laughs, short and sweet and bubbly, and he didn't think it was possible for there to be a more beautiful sound than her singing but it looks like he's found it. Honestly, it's almost worth the embarrassment. Almost.

"Aww, thanks. Really, I'm flattered."

She pats his knee and Barry feels a shiver run up his thigh, the skin underneath his jeans burning at her touch, like it's itching for more. Her hand lingers there just a little bit longer than necessary, and she's grinning at him like she knows something, a curious look in her eye, but before he can ask she pulls it away and claps her hands together, heaving a sigh.

"Well, you were here first, so I'll leave you to it. Your thoughts and whatnot, I mean."

He wants to tell her no, please, she really doesn't have to leave. In fact, he really wants to tell her to stay. That he's very much enjoying her company, and he really likes talking to her, and he really likes _her_ and oh God he's liked her for the longest time and now he's actually sitting next to her and she's almost touching him and she's just about to walk away because she thinks he wants to be_ alone_ rather than talking to her and how ridiculous is that and–there's a lot he really wants to say. But he can't get past the lump in his throat, the churning in his stomach, the nerves that are back full force. He's not afraid to admit it–he's scared. Terrified of saying the wrong thing. So instead he says nothing at all, paralyzed by his own cowardice, for long enough that it's Iris who ends up filling the silence.

"I'll see you tomorrow, then? At callbacks? I think we might be reading a scene together."

"Yeah," he swallows, clearing his throat. It's probably not just all the singing and belting he's done today that have made his voice sound so small. "Yeah, of course. I'm looking forward to it."

Iris smiles at him, and it's even more beautiful than he could've ever imagined–and he's imagined it _a lot_–up close like this.

"Great! I'll see you then," she says as she hops off the stage. Barry doesn't even bother trying to hide the fact that he's staring, wide-eyed and unabashedly, as she walks away to the doors in the back. Which is why he nearly chokes when she spins around without warning and catches him at it. She smirks at him knowingly, watching with amusement as the color floods his cheeks.

"For the record, I really do hope you get the part," Iris calls out, giving him a wink as she walks backwards towards the door, confident as ever. "I totally wouldn't mind having you as a love interest."


	38. Competitive Nature

_**Prompt: "I beat you at Mario Kart and now I've been banished to the couch for the night AU"**_

**xXx**

"Come on…come on…yes!" Barry cheers as he drives through the shiny question-marked box and is instantly rewarded with three glorious spiky red shells, slowly circling his player–Mario, of course, it's always Mario. Iris teases him relentlessly about his trusty go-to choice, because _'God, could you be any more boring, Barry?_, any yet she's _always_ picking Luigi to match, so she guesses she's not much better, in the long run. "_Perfect._"

He grips his controller tight and goes in for the kill, one shell easily finding its target as he zooms past Peach and then the next hitting its mark and leaving Toad spinning sideways off the track. And then he's in third and she's still in first, with just a computer-player Yoshi between them, and he's close enough that it's mildly concerning but Iris is _so close _to the finish,and he wouldn't dare think about using that last red shell on her–would he? She huffs as she turns the corner to the final home-stretch, the finish line clearly in sight. _He better fucking not._

"Whatever. I'm still gonna win," Iris says, feigning indifference and zeroing in on the finish.

"You sure about that?" Barry smirks, and Iris glances sideways at him, narrowing her eyes. When she sees the evil grin he's wearing and the determined look in his eye, her eyes widen in horror, and when she returns her attention back to the TV she can see him gaining on her on her side of the screen. And sure enough, he's just passed Yoshi and he's still got that one red shell left, circling ominously around his kart.

"_No_–no, Barry, you _wouldn't,_" she pleads, and for a split second she thinks that maybe it's not going to matter after all, anyway, because she's about five feet from the finish line and she'll make it there in time, of course she will–when his last red shell hits her from behind. Suddenly Luigi is spinning off course and then skidding to a stop and Mario is zooming past her, crossing the line into first place, and by the time she recuperates to cross that last tiny stretch she's been surpassed by everyone including fucking _Bowser,_ landing her in last place. She tosses her control to the side, springs to her feet to shut the TV off, and rounds on him, her face a barely contained mask of fury.

"Get out."

"What?"

"_Leave_. Immediately."

"And go where…?" he trails off when he catches sight of her expression, and figures it's best not to argue. He knows her. He knows that look. He's–well, he's in deep shit. "I–ah, okay then…"

Just as he makes to push himself up from the couch, resigning himself to his fate, Iris holds a hand up to stop him, putting a hand on his chest to push him back down.

"Wait–on second thought, stay here."

Before he can respond she's storming away, trudging up the stairs and stomping her feet with deliberate force, and he sinks back into the couch, waiting, completely bewildered.

When she gets upstairs, Iris angrily yanks the door to the closet next to the bathroom open and pulls out the fleece throw blanket adorned with little lightning bolts that she'd gotten Barry as a joke for his last birthday along with a spare pillow, and slams the door shut behind her. She slowly makes her way back down the stairs, taking her sweet time and purposely leaving him on edge. When she finally makes her way back over to the couch, he's looking at her in equal parts trepidation and bemusement, like a criminal awaiting their sentence. Which, in her opinion, really isn't too far off the mark, considering what she's holding him accountable for.

She shoves the blanket and pillow in his face just as he's about to open his mouth to ask, and taps her foot impatiently. He blinks, staring incredulously at the items in her hands and then back at her, comprehension dawning on his face. "Iris–Iris, you can't be serious."

She doesn't say anything, just scowls and shakes her arm a bit, letting some of the blanket slip out of grip and onto his lap, refusing to budge until he finally heaves a sigh and takes it from her outstretched hand.

"You did this to yourself, Barry," she says ruefully, casting him a final, bitter glare before spinning on her heel and heading back upstairs, to their bedroom and to the blissfully comfortable queen bed that she's kicking his ass out of for the night.

They'd meant to just play a round of Mario Kart before bed to de-stress from the day (ha. right. if anything it had only made her_ more_ stressed), so she's already ready to turn in for the night and clad in her pajamas, ready to crawl into bed and quietly seethe in her anger alone until exhaustion takes over and carries her off to sleep. Except it doesn't.

Seconds, minutes, hours trickle by (she's lost track) as she lays awake, rolling over this way and that–on her side, on her belly, on her back, in strange and not entirely comfortable positions where she's got her arms and legs bent and positioned at weird angles. The sad truth is that she never sleeps well when he's not there with her, when he's not holding her and when she doesn't have his presence to keep her relaxed, the steady, reassuring beat of his heart against her ear, and quite frankly the bed just feels empty. Empty and cold and she just doesn't feel _whole_–a feeling borne from all the times where he'd be out all night long risking his life in some way or another, all the times where he wouldn't come home and she'd have to lay awake wondering and hoping and praying that he was still out there and that he was okay and that he was _alive_, terrified of the prospect of losing him. And so she craves his touch, the warmth of his body pressed up against hers, and with good reason.

Finally, after what feels like forever of tossing and turning and shivering from the lack of Barry's familiar body heat–he runs warm, with his increased metabolism and all, and she's sort of grown accustomed to it–she groans and pulls the covers up over her head, resolving herself to the fact that she's just not going to get any sleep like this, no matter how much she doesn't want to admit it. With another dejected sigh she throws the covers off of her and swings her legs over the side of the bed, rubbing her eyes before standing on tired, wobbly legs to make her way out of the room. She creeps down the stairs as quietly as possible, nearly tripping over a stray pair of shoes–hers, probably–and banging her shins against the coffee table as she attempts to feel her way through the dark and towards the couch where she can just barely make out the faint outline of Barry's sleeping form.

Barry is either a super-light sleeper or he sleeps like a rock, there's really no in between, and it's completely depending on the day. She hopes for his sake and for hers that tonight it's the latter, because he looks so peaceful and she really doesn't want to wake him up, and she also really doesn't want to give him the satisfaction. So she clambers up next to him on the couch as stealthily as she can, careful not to jar him, lifting the blanket up a bit and crawling underneath it so that it's covering the both of them.

The second she lays down next to him, the moment he registers her presence, he drapes an arm across her waist and pulls her close. His eyes remain firmly shut all the while, like it's the most natural thing in the world, like even in sleep his brain and his body are hard-wired to respond to hers. She twists around in his arms and wraps her own around his middle, tucking her head underneath his chin and scooting even closer, pressing right up against him so that she won't be in danger of falling off the edge of the couch. She sighs contentedly, and she can already feel herself on the brink of sleep when he starts to speak, startling her back awake. Even though his voice is thick with sleep she can practically _hear_ him grinning.

"Changed your mind then, huh?"

"Shut up," she mumbles tiredly into his chest, letting her eyelids flutter shut and relaxing back into his arms. "I was _cold_."

"Mhm-hm."

She feels his laughter, a gentle, comforting rumble against her ear, the sound travelling all the way from her head down to her toes and filling her up with both warmth and irritation.

"…I hate you."

He doesn't rise to the bait, just kisses her forehead, his lips curling into a smile against her skin, and tightens his hold on her. She's trying so hard to stay annoyed with him, but she's tired and she's so comfortable here and she loves this stupid, first-place-stealing boy so goddamn much, and her irritation is already fading fast. In the morning, she'll make sure she gives him hell for it, but for now she just lets herself be lulled to sleep by the beating of his heart, the warmth radiating off his skin, the tenderness in his voice when he laughs and says "Love you, too."


	39. Amnesia

_**Prompt: "I have amnesia and you say you're my best friend but I keep on forgetting and thinking we're lovers au"**_

**xXx**

When he wakes up from his coma, he can't remember what happened, or how he got here in the first place. He can't remember names and he can't remember faces, he can't remember where he's from or what he does or even what his name is. He can't remember a single thing about his life, or the people, the places, the memories that defined it. He can't really remember _anything_.

Except….well, it's strange, but the only thing he can remember are feelings. (Which, for someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, who feels as much as he does for people, ends up making things a lot more complicated than it should.)

The first words out of his mouth when he wakes up are not "Where am I?" but rather "Who am I?" and he blinks in confusion and fear at the two people–a man with long hair and a graphic tee and strict-looking woman in a lab coat–in the room before him, feeling nothing. He wouldn't know whether or not he should recognize them, because he wouldn't recognize anyone right now, but…somehow, they just _feel _unfamiliar. Not bad, but definitely unfamiliar.

They're both staring at him with wide eyes, and they exchange a look of surprise before they're suddenly rushing towards him, and then there are hands prodding him and a light's being shone in his eyes and the guy–who is decidedly _way_ too excited about all this–grins at him as he puts his hands on his shoulders, keeping him in place as the no-nonsense looking woman puts two fingers on the side of his neck to feel his pulse. She scribbles something down on a notepad she's just extracted from her pocket and nods to the over-excited guy, who nods back and finally releases his hold.

"Relax, man. I'm Cisco Ramon," he says, gesturing to himself, and then waves a hand at the woman next to him, who's checking the monitors by the bed, "and this is Caitlin–I mean, Dr. Snow. You're at STAR Labs. You were in a coma. Nine months. They brought you here, and–"

Something registers in the back of his mind, like the words "coma" and "nine months" and "you" together in the same sentence is something he should be concerned about, and he feels a momentary flicker of unease in his chest as he struggles to wrap his head around it. The thought, however, is momentarily outweighed by the concern that's been pressing on him from the moment he'd opened his eyes, and he cuts Cisco off before he can explain any further.

"Okay, but _who am I_?" he repeats, and there's that look again, that silent communication thing between the two strangers–Cisco and Caitlin, he corrects himself–that doesn't seem to bode well for his situation.

"You–you don't know who you are…?"

He wracks his brain, trying to remember something, _anything_, but again he comes up empty. His eyebrows pull together in confusion and he shakes his head at Cisco, who shoots a nervous look towards Caitlin, who looks back at him with sad eyes before running a hand through her hair and heaving a sigh.

"Cisco, I think now might be a good time to contact the Wests. I'm going to run some more tests, see what's going on–if this is temporary or…well, we should get them in here, anyway. See if that jogs his memory and figure out just how much he remembers or…or not. Oh–and get Dr. Wells. He'll want to know that Barry's awake."

_Barry?_

He doesn't realize he's said it out loud until Cisco and Caitlin are both looking at him with matching expressions of pity and mild panic.

Cisco nods to Caitlin and disappears for a few moments, during which time Caitlin continues running her tests, poking and prodding and calmly explaining that _he_ is Barry–it's his name, apparently: Bartholomew Henry Allen. He's twenty-five and he's a forensic scientist and he works for the Central City Police Department, etc. etc. etc. As if he knows what any of that really means. When he tries to lighten the mood, to jokingly ask her if his parents hate him or something because '_Bartholomew? Really?' _Caitlin gives him a smile that's entirely forced and then averts her eyes and he wonders just what he's missing, what she's so obviously hiding from him. His thoughts become jumbled as he tries to really remember his parents, to remember why the mention of them has brought about this reaction, and feels a sinking sensation in his stomach and a burning in his eyes when he does–although he can't for the life of him remember why. After that he stops asking questions, just lets Caitlin work in silence, and waits.

When Cisco comes back, he's trailed by a man in a wheelchair, who's looking at Barry over the rims of his glasses with an expression that's almost…predatory. It makes him feel like he's a bug under a microscope, like he's a particularly interesting science project, like this man knows something about him that he doesn't know about himself (which, all things considered, wouldn't exactly be an unreasonable feat right about now). All in all, it makes him feel uncomfortable, and he blinks and looks away, diverting his attention back to Cisco, who's relaying information to Caitlin that Barry's not sure if he's supposed to hear or not, but he listens in anyway.

"I tried calling Joe, but I couldn't get a hold of him. I was able to get in touch with Iris, though, and she's on her way now. Says she's going to stop by the precinct first and drag her dad away from work, give him the good news. I didn't–I couldn't tell her, you know…" Cisco trails off, gaze darting briefly over to Barry, "I couldn't tell her that there's some…complications with Barry. Not yet–she sounded so excited. And like you said, we don't know if maybe they'll jog his memory or something."

Barry feels a flicker of–it's not recognition, exactly. But it's something, like a strange flutter in his stomach, a sudden spike in his heartbeat. He wonders what could have caused it, and it's that feeling churning in his gut that prompts him to speak up.

"Who's Iris?" he asks, his mind whirring and chest constricting, desperate to remember, and Cisco makes a face at him.

"Well, I guess that answers that question," Caitlin mutters under her breath at the same time Cisco responds, sounding unsure, "She's, ah…she's your…something." Barry continues to look confused, but Cisco really doesn't have a better answer for him. He's honestly not sure_ what_ Iris is to Barry, because he's never really asked her. If they're just friends or something more, because from watching the way she'd looked at him, touched him, talked to him, cried over him while visiting him in his coma, well…he's sort of inclined to say the latter. Still, better safe than sorry–he doesn't want to make any assumptions. "She came to visit you a lot while you were–ah, out."

"Oh," he blinks, that seemingly perpetual look of confusion still fastened on his face. "Iris."

He says it just to say it, to hear it loud again, to try it out for size. The name rolls of his tongue easily, like he's said it a million times before, only when he tries to think past that feeling in his gut he comes up empty. No face, no history, no memories to attach to the name, except…except love. And there it is–another feeling he's held onto, and all he knows is that this girl's name is Iris, and that she came to visit him while he was in his coma, and he loves her more than anything. The other name–Joe–stirs something in his chest too, only it's a much different kind of love, and _God_, he just wishes he could remember them.

But then the man in the wheelchair is coming closer to him, extending a hand, smiling at him in a way that makes Barry feel slightly queasy. Something about him just doesn't feel right, rubs him the wrong way. He quietly reminds himself that he doesn't know this man–_or at least he doesn't think he does?_–and he shouldn't be so quick to judge. He pushes the feeling aside for the time being and takes the man's outstretched hand, giving him a tight smile of his own.

"Nice to finally meet you, Mr. Allen," the man says, and at the sound of his voice Barry feels a chill run up his spine, one that leaves him already considering re-thinking this whole _'don't-be-so-quick-to-judge' _thing. "My name is Harrison Wells. I brought you here to STAR Labs, and we stabilized you during your coma. Let's talk."

xXx

"Barry?"

The girl who Cisco assures him is Iris–although he doesn't really have to, Barry can already tell by the way his heart is suddenly racing in his chest, pounding so loud he's sure the rest of the room must be able to hear it–approaches the bed cautiously, followed closely by an older man who must be this 'Joe'. There are tears in her eyes, and suddenly the only thing on his mind is the overwhelming desire to comfort her, to hug her and take her in his arms and assure her that everything is okay and will be okay and that _he's _okay.

"Barry, do you…do you know who I am?"

And then it hits him–because there's only one possible explanation for the crushing, overwhelming love he feels for her, for the nature of what he's feeling. They must have been together before his accident, of course, it all makes sense. He opens his mouth and he can't stop himself from smiling because_ of cours_e and it's so _obvious _and he's finally figured it out, and says, "You must be…my girlfriend?"

Her eyes go wide as she splutters, freezing in place at the foot of his bed. "I–what? No, no of course not."

He feels a momentary pang of confusion and disappointment, until other thought hits him, and suddenly his smile returns ten-fold. "Oh! Oh, I get it. You're my wife."

She blinks at him, bewildered, at a complete loss for words, and throws a desperate glance at the man–her father–behind her. _Her father_, he thinks to himself, _who must be his father-in-law, which is why he feels that familial love for him, and–_

"No, Barry," she finally manages to get out, twisting her fingers together and coughing awkwardly, "No–no, we're just best friends. The bestest of best friends. Really…really good friends," she finishes lamely, and despite the overall seriousness of the situation, Joe can't hold in his snicker behind her. He's known, of course, about Barry's feelings for Iris for a long time now, but he never imagined the truth would come out like_ this_.

"Oh," Barry says, crestfallen. "But it's just–I look at you and I don't know you but I feel–well, it doesn't feel like something you feel for just a friend. I can't remember anything, but I remember that I love you. I guess I thought–I assumed–I don't know, I'm sorry."

"It's–hey, don't worry about it. It's fine. Let's just–let's just get you home, yeah? Dad and I kept your apartment in good shape for you since you've been away, too."

Okay. Okay, so his home is somewhere with this girl (and her father? his father, too?) but…they're not together? And he's also apparently got an apartment, but something about the way she says it makes it seem like it's…not home. And he feels it too. The confusion must be apparent on his face, because Iris's eyes are sad and sorry and still a little bit bewildered but it's almost like she's silently communicating something to him with that look, something that seems to say '_I'll explain later._' And he doesn't have any reason to trust anyone right now, but he trusts her. So he pushes those particular questions aside and instead asks another, this one equally as pressing.

"Where is home?"

This time it's Joe who opens his mouth to respond, but Dr. Wells cuts him off before he can answer.

"I'm not sure if that's such a great idea," Wells says rather coldly, "Mr. Allen is still obviously facing the after-effects of whatever is going on with him. There's still so much we need to figure out, and he's lost his memory, so I believe–"

"We're taking him home," Iris snaps at him, undeterred. "We'll bring him back for check-ups every day or whenever you want, if you must, until you figure out what's wrong with him, but we're taking home. He's still our Barry."

Barry feels something warm settle in his chest at the way she says '_our'_, almost as if she'd meant to say _'my'_, and he finds himself wondering again how it's possible that they're only just friends.

In the end, Dr. Wells is no match for Iris West when she's determined, and he's forced to let her and Joe take Barry home with them–and they decide together that it's best to take him _home,_ to have him stay with them again instead of alone in his apartment when he's got no memory and they don't know exactly what's wrong yet and any slew of things could happen–just barely managing to hide his glare as they make their way out of STAR Labs. They'll be back, he knows. He has time. He just has to be patient.

xXx

Caitlin explains it to Iris after she brings Barry in for his second check-up, that it's strange, that it's the most unusual thing she's ever seen, (but then again, she says, everything about Barry's case is unusual), and she doesn't quite know the reason yet, but Barry appears to have woken up from his coma with no memory but the lingering feelings from his life before it.

The real kicker is that they don't know if it can be reversed, if he'll ever really get his memories back. So in the meantime, Iris puts up with Barry mistaking her for something she's not, with constantly having to remind him of his mistake, with him forgetting again the next day. It's not his fault, she knows–there are only certain details he retains from day-to-day now. His name. His age. Their names, but not how he knows them, really. It's frustrating, waking up every morning with an increasingly dwindling hope to ask him if he knows who she is and finding herself facing that same confused, blank stare and then the resulting, tentative _'my girlfriend?', _but that's by far not the worst part of this seemingly short-term memory loss–more stupid fucking memory loss, of course, to go along with all his long-term lost memories from before the coma.No, the worst part is having to explain to him why he's living with her and Joe, where his real parents are. He doesn't always ask, but on the days that he does…she just doesn't know how much longer she can put up with seeing his face crumple like that, with single-handedly being the one to break his heart with one short explanation.

"If all he can remember are feelings then…why does he think I'm his girlfriend?" Iris asks on their fifth visit, since it's the first time her dad's not with them too, as Caitlin is hooking Barry up to some machine while he's asleep and Cisco is standing by with her to watch. "Or wife, or whatever. We've never been anything more than just…friends. I don't–I don't understand."

Caitlin and Cisco exchange one of their trademark 'you-handle-this-please' looks, and Caitlin gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head as Cisco shrugs helplessly. Caitlin pauses what she's doing to pat Iris awkwardly on the shoulder, gives her a pitying look and then hurriedly turns away, back to her task at hand and leaving her to face Cisco, who's regarding her with nothing short of exasperation.

"Well…?"

"Iris…listen," he sighs, like he's explaining something very self-explanatory to a very oblivious person, "if Barry acted anywhere near as obvious about his feelings around you before his coma as you did towards him while he was in it and you _never realized it_…I don't really know what to tell you except–well, he clearly was,_ is_, whatever, in love with you. And you…you were here a lot Iris. I saw the way you acted around him, heard what you said to him, and it seemed like more than 'just friends' to me, you know?"

She wants to deny it, she's got a protest at the ready on the tip of her tongue, but in the end all that comes out when she opens her mouth is, "Yeah. Yeah, I know."

Because she does. She really does.

xXx

At some point over the next couple weeks, even though he's still got his condition, even though he's still on medical leave from work considering, well, _he can't remember anything_, even though he's not back to normal, even though he's still going through regular check-ups at STAR Labs, Barry insists on moving back into his apartment. And he can definitely take care of himself, Iris knows that–it's just his memories that are missing, not his basic understanding of things–but that doesn't make her any less reluctant to see him leave.

Especially because even though he's different, at his core he's still the same, he's still her goofy, nerdy, Barry. Even though his memories are still jumbled or missing, he's still got the same heart, and if she's being honest it's been sort of…eye-opening, this whole experience. She doesn't know when she stopped correcting him when he calls her his girlfriend, when he tries to hold her hand or his touches linger a little longer than they would when they were 'just friends'–if they ever really were that–but she does, and she finds that she really doesn't mind. Somewhere down the line, she realizes that she _wants_ it to be true.

Which is how she finds herself outside of his apartment early one morning, high off of this revelation, this realization of her feelings–and how ironic is it that all he remembers, the only thing he's really sure about, are is feelings for her and yet it's taken her so long to figure out her own?–but she's here now, and she knows what she wants, and if he's not going to remember then she's ready to move forward, anyway. Her heart is pounding like it's trying to fly out of her ribcage and burst from her chest and her hands are shaking as she knocks on the door. She stands there for at least two minutes before she feels herself deflate, realizes that he must still be asleep, but just as she's about to turn away the door swings open.

"Hey, Iris! What are you doing here? Not that I'm not happy to see you, of course, but it's sort of really early, and…um…" Barry trails off, his voice bright and cheery, stepping to the side and gesturing towards the now open doorway. "I mean, since you're here, want to come in? I just made pancakes."

"You know who I am?" she asks, mouth dry, struggling to get past the lump in her throat and brushing off his questions entirely. Something about the way he's addressed her takes her off guard, throws her for a loop, and she momentarily forgets what she came here to say. He nods seriously, and even though his hair is still mussed from sleep and his pajamas are rumpled and he's clearly just recently woken up, his eyes look more alert than she's seen them in a while. She starts to wonder if maybe something's changed, if maybe he's actually recognizing her for real this time, recognizing her from years and years spent growing up together, having each other's backs, being the one steady constant in each other's lives. Then his eyebrows pull together in confusion, and he opens his mouth, starts to say the same thing he's been saying for weeks, and she figures she must have been getting her hopes up, that it must have been a trick of her imagination.

"Uh, yeah. Of course. You're my—"

And suddenly she decides she doesn't need to hear it, not anymore, because she's already made up her mind and she knows it's what she wants and she knows it's what he wants and if they're really going to have to start over like this then fuck it—why not? This is what she came here for, anyway. And so she grabs his shirt, bunches it in her fist and pulls him close and then reaches up on her tip-toes to cut him off with a kiss.

His lips are a little bit sticky with syrup and it's decidedly delicious, not only because of the sugar but even more because of who she's finally kissing, and she can pinpoint the moment that Barry's shock must wear off because then he's kissing her back and oh–_oh._ She wastes no time taking his bottom lip between her teeth, just barely pulling away and taking in the sweetness before leaning right back in for more. She can't help but let out a little sigh of pleasure when he takes a hand and tangles it in her hair, cradling the back of her head and tilting it up to deepen the kiss. He tastes like home, like something she's been so sorely missing, like the bacon-and-chocolate chip pancakes her dad had taught them to make when they were younger and they'd get up early on the weekends when he'd first come to live them, and—wait. Bacon and chocolate chip pancakes? That's a West special recipe. That's not something easily forgotten. _That's a memory._

She abruptly pulls away, takes a step back, and bumps into the door frame, feeling the heat rushing to her face.

"—_best friend?"_ Barry chokes when he can find his voice again, the words coming out like a squeak. His eyes are wide and dazed as he blinks down at her, looking both astonished and ecstatic, and he sounds so out of breath she wonders if he's been holding it this whole time. His mouth is hanging open a bit in shock and it would probably be funny under any other circumstances but– "You kissed me. You're my best friend who just kissed me. That was–oh my God. _Oh my God, Iris_."

"You–you remember that?"

He nods his head, his eyes still wide as saucers, looking at her in awe and confusion. "It…it literally just happened, Iris. And…it's also something I'm never going to forget, seriously, you have no idea how–"

"No, no–not the kiss. I meant…you remember that we're best friends? You remember _me_?"

"I–what? Of course I–"

"Your memory is back." It's not a question, and she says it in stunned disbelief, like she's struggling to wrap her head around the fact that after waiting so long, after thinking it was gone for good, it's finally true. _His memory is back. _Which means he doesn't think she's his girlfriend, or his wife, or his lover. Just his best friend and–and she's just _kissed_ him. _Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh–_

"My memory was gone?" he says, bemused, momentarily pulling his gaze away from her lips, which she wipes self-consciously on the back of her hand.

"You…yeah. Yeah, you lost it after you woke up from your coma, and–"

"Coma? I was in a _coma_?"

"Okay," she breathes, mind reeling at this turn of events. She loops her arm through his and tugs him through the door, because judging by the look on his face, and considering everything she's thrown at him in the past few minutes, he doesn't seem to be capable of moving on his own. "Okay. Let's go inside. I think I'll take you up on that pancake offer, now. We have a lot we need to discuss."


	40. Your Biggest Fan (pt 2)

_**Prompt: loosely done for the prompt "i'm yelling to my friend about how attractive this celebrity is and then plot twist you're the celebrity and in front of me wtf" except this is more of just a follow up to the celebrity/fan au in ch. 25**_

**xXx**

"Cisco, she's amazing. Like. Oh my God."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm serious, Cisco. She's sweet, she's funny, she's confident, she's got the nicest laugh and the prettiest smile, she's fucking stunning, and–"

"Barry, please, I get it. You've been telling me all this for the past…" Cisco sighs and checks his watch to figure out how long it's been since he'd gotten the frantic call from Barry to come over his place _ASAP!_ to help him figure out something to wear, how long it's been since_ apparently_ his car was too slow and Barry had ended up just swinging by his place, scooping him up as he'd been about to grab his keys, and running with him instead. "Forty-five minutes. You're gonna be late for this thing if you don't hurry up, dude. Fastest man alive and you're gonna be late for your date with the girl of your dreams because you've changed, like, fifty times already. How does that make any sense?"

"Sorry, sorry. It's just. Wow, Cisco. You have to see her, like, up close. In person. Did I tell you that I got her autograph?" he gushes as he distractedly pulls shirt number fifty-one over his head. Cisco didn't even know his friend even _owned_ this many shirts, considering he only ever wears the same three. "Oh God, and she kissed my cheek, too."

"Yes, you did tell me that already, multiple times." Cisco rolls his eyes. "And yes, I can see that, because you still have her lipstick on your face."

Barry touches his fingers to his cheek, blanching at the red smeared across his skin when he pulls his hand away. "Oh, shit–you're right. Thanks for reminding me, dude. What would I ever do without you?"

Cisco suppresses a grin as he gives Barry, who's absentmindedly straightening his tie–a bright red thing with little beakers and equations on it–a slow and exasperated once-over. "Well, clearly you wouldn't survive out there in the real world, considering you've got your shirt on backwards and you're not wearing any pants." He can't hold back his laughter when Barry glances down at himself and blushes nearly as red as his tie.

"Oops. I guess I was a little–"

"–distracted, yeah. I'm aware. You might want to–"

There's a whoosh and the magazine Cisco is flipping through goes flying, and two seconds later Barry is in front of him, face clean (hair…sort of wet? It takes Cisco a moment to realize that Barry can, in fact, take a shower in less time than it takes him to blink), shirt on the right way and pants that (relatively) match.

"–fix that."

Barry holds his arms out and raises an eyebrow expectantly. "So? What do you think? Yes, no?"

"I_ think _you were okay fifty outfits ago. But yeah, I like this one." The shirt is a simple red button down, and the pants are plain and black, but it's a good look on him. Except… "Lose the tie though. I mean, seriously?"

Barry frowns and looks down at his tie, and then back up at Cisco, pouting, looking remarkably like a kicked puppy.

"But…I love this tie."

"Suit yourself, man," Cisco laughs, shaking his head fondly. "Maybe this _literal movie star _will appreciate the fact that you're a massive dork, I don't know. The world works in mysterious ways."

This comment earns him the finger, as Barry huffs and narrows his eyes at him. "Well, you're one to talk. Some of the stories Caitlin's told me about your first date…I mean, do you really have any room to judge?"

Cisco splutters indignantly and pushes himself off of the couch. "Hey! That's classified information! I'm gonna have to have a word with her…the traitor…"

Barry snickers at his outrage, but then his eye catches the time on the clock above his TV and he nearly bolts out of the room right where he's standing.

"Oh my God, I _am _going tobe late. Do you need me to drop you back at your place, or…?"

Cisco walks towards him and starts pushing him to the door, making shooing motions with his hands as Barry stops to frown at him questioningly.

"Nah, dude, I'll be fine. I'll crash here for a bit, or have Caitlin pick me up. Go have fun, really. And make sure you give me all the details later." He waggles his eyebrows, and Barry rolls his eyes at him before squeezing his friend's shoulder gratefully.

"_Thank you_," he says with feeling. Cisco gives him a hearty thumbs up, and a second later he's blasting out the door.

When he gets to the venue he's supposed to meet her at, there's a super-intimidating door-man who stares him down–sort of a hard thing to do in itself, considering he's pretty tall, but the guy is managing it just fine–and asks him for his name. It takes him three tries to say it without stuttering so that the man can actually understand him, and to his immense relief, after flipping through the papers on the clipboard he's got in his hand, the man gives him a curt nod and steps aside, letting him through. "You're on the list," he says, giving Barry an appraising once over, and Barry shuffles past him, well aware that he must be wondering how such a lanky-looking nobody got invited to something like _this_. His embarrassment doesn't last long, though, because he spots Iris almost immediately. She's hanging by the entrance, her back toward him, and he feels a tingle in his skin, a disbelieving flutter in his stomach at the knowledge that she's waiting for_ him_.

He makes his way over to her and taps her shoulder. She spins around to face him, her expression bright and eager, breaking into a smile at the sight of him. He shifts nervously under her gaze as she looks him slowly up and down, but when she meets his eyes she's beaming in approval.

"We match."

When he finally manages to tear his eyes away from her face–which is really not an easy task–he notices that she's changed from earlier, wearing a simple but elegant, tight-fitting red dress with a plunging neckline and an open back that leaves him a little light-headed. She's got on gold hoop earrings and a gold necklace and gold bangles on her wrists, and wouldn't you know it–her shoes are gold too. It's hard to miss the theme she's got going on there. The deliberate color choice leaves a sweet taste in his mouth and a swelling feeling in his chest, and he suddenly doesn't feel like so much of a dork for wanting to go with red himself because she'd mentioned that it was her favorite color in an interview, like, five months ago. She definitely pulls it off better than he does, though, and he's totally fine with that.

"Oh–yeah. I guess we kind of do," he says with a smile of his own, but it quickly fades when he notices her eyeing his tie with interest.

"You don't, I don't know, think this is too tacky? Should I take it off?" he asks hastily, flicking the ridiculous thing and making a face, cursing himself for not listening to Cisco.

"No," she shakes her head and pats it, letting her hand linger on his chest, smiling at the feeling of his impossibly fast heartbeat underneath her fingertips. "Keep the tie. I like it. It's…endearing."

He beams at her as she squints to get a closer look at it. Her eyes flicker back up to meet his, and she gives him her sweetest smile, poking him in the chest. "Seriously, I think it's cute. _You're_ cute."

He lets out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding and takes in her appearance again, because it's a lot to take in. "And you're–I don't even know if I have the words to say it, really. You look amazing. Not that you don't always look amazing, but–you look…really good," he finishes lamely, but Iris looks satisfied. "Oh, and congratulations on your win. I mean, I _knew_ you would, of course, you really deserved it."

She loops her arm around his and starts walking forward, tugging him along with her, smiling at his praise. "Aww, thanks. Come on, let's go. Party's already started."

There's something about this place that seems oddly familiar, pulling at some corner of his memory, but he can't quite put a finger on it as he falls into step with Iris, letting her lead the way. That is, until someone offers them both a glass of champagne, and he suddenly remembers precisely where he knows it from.

"Oh, I've been here before!" he says before he can stop himself. Iris looks at him curiously, and he hastens to explain. "I mean, knew this place looked familiar. This was–"

"–where you fought the Trickster, right? Stopped, I mean, it really wasn't much of a fight, you really showed him, and–oh my God. Please, forget I just said that! Oh, God, this is so embarrassing, you must think I'm a stalker or something. I swear I'm not creepy, I just remember reading about it and–"

Once he finally gets past his initial surprise, he breaks out into a grin and cuts her off before she can ramble any further, soothing her worries. "Listen, Iris–I'm pretty sure I've seen every movie you've ever been in, and I keep up with your interviews too–you know, the whole nine yards. So if you've been keeping tabs on my fights, it's really no big deal. I guess it sort of makes us even."

"Wow. I–yeah, I guess it does." Iris lets out a breathy laugh, shaking her head ruefully. "Well, I guess now that we're on the topic of us being huge losers for each other…this wouldn't be a bad time to mention that I technically run an anonymous blog about you? As the Flash I mean, since I did make it before I knew–"

"_Wait._ Wait, oh my god, that's _you_?"

xXx

The next few hours pass by in a haze of camera flashes, introductions to people that Barry cannot _believe_ he's meeting face to face, let alone having conversations with, music, laughter, and noise, noise, noise. For as new and different and overwhelming as everything is, the thought that keeps him most occupied is the fact that Iris's arm never leaves his–she's always touching him, clutching his arm or looping hers through his, grabbing his hand and pulling him this way and that, guiding him around the place and keeping him close the whole time. It's distracting in the best possible sense, and for all of the celebrities she introduces him to, for all of the people behind the scenes and for all of producers and directors, it's really the only thing he'll hold onto, in the end.

"So, tell me, Barry Allen," Iris asks, when they finally get a moment to talk one-on-one, "what does the fastest man alive do when he's not saving the city?"

"I'm a forensic scientist, actually. Director of the CSI Division at CCPD."

"Oh, that's–that's really cool. My dad used to be a detective there, actually, but he transferred to Starling." The way she says it is strange, like there's a story there, and he resolves to ask later. If they get to later. God, he's really hoping they get to later. Her eyes flick to his tie again, and she flashes him a knowing grin. "So, you're all into science-y stuff then, huh?"

"Yeah…you could definitely say that. Honestly though, for your own sake, this isn't a topic you want to get me started on, because I'll never _stop _talking. Trust me, it's happened before. And it's embarrassing."

She laughs and pinches his cheek, and Barry balks at her touch, his face turning a rosy shade of pink. "Oh, stop. It just so happens I have a thing for adorable nerds. And you are definitely the cutest nerd I've ever met."

xXx

They swap stories for a while, so engrossed in each other that for as many people there are that want to get a word in with big-time award-winner Iris West–and there's a lot–no one bothers to break up their conversation. During a rare but comfortable silence that falls between them, just as they finish discussing Iris's coffee addiction–_"At least five cups a day, _she tells him,_ especially when I'm working on set"_–Iris hums thoughtfully, remembering something that's been weighing on her mind.

"I've been meaning to ask–and you don't have to answer this, of course, if it's too personal or something–but…I _am_ curious. How did it all happen? How did you…you know…become what you are?"

He opens his mouth to respond and snaps it shut just as quickly as someone shuffles by, as another person bumps his shoulder from behind, as he suddenly becomes hyper-aware of the crowd around them, of all the people that could be listening in, like everything's moving in slow-motion. His gaze sweeps the room, taking in all the cameras, the reporters, the bright lights and laughter and hordes of everyone from A-list celebrities to the paparazzi attempting to force their way in, and he realizes that this really isn't the time or the place for this kind of conversation. Honestly, Caitlin would be proud.

"Well, I mean, I would love to tell you everything–really, I would, it's a pretty cool story–but I don't really think it's the kind of thing I should be talking about so openly here. Because, you know," he gestures to the crowds of people around them and then to himself, "secret identity and all."

"Oh, God, I'm so sorry. You're totally right–I wasn't even thinking," she groans, scrunching her nose up in embarrassment, but when she glances up at him through her eyelashes her eyes are blazing again, and she's got a playful smirk curling at the corners of her lips. "Lucky for us, though, I've got a really cool flat here in in Central that we could go to to talk. Real nice and quiet, really cozy, and it's got a pool with a _hot tub _in it. You know, we could talk…go for a swim…get away from all this noise and all these people. This is nice and all, but I sort of want you all to myself, right now. If you're okay with that, that is."

He feels his palms go sweaty and his heartbeat speed up at the insinuation. And the way she's looking at him right now–God, it's really hard to think. Barry's voice is high and strained, his mind going into over-drive, as he struggles to form a coherent response. "I–I'd like that. Sounds really…really nice. Great. I–yeah." He bites his lip as another thought occurs to him, and because he's not really thinking straight, he blurts it out before he can stop himself. "But I don't have a bathing suit."

She stares at him in surprise for half-a-beat before bursting into laughter, doubling over and clutching her side. Her fits of giggles turn to hiccups as Barry rubs her back awkwardly, carefully averting the questioning gaze the people who are starting to stop and stare.

"Are you…uh…gonna be okay there?"

After what must be at least a solid thirty seconds, she finally manages to catch her breath, clutching Barry's arm as she straightens herself up. She's grinning at him ear-to-ear, her cheeks flushed and dimpled with that beautiful smile of hers, and it takes him a minute to remember the reason behind it in the first place.

He's about to ask her what was so funny when she takes his tie in her hand and tugs him close, pulling him down towards her as she gets on her tip-toes (which later she will refuse to admit to doing because she's wearing her tallest heels tonight and she can't possibly be that short shut up Barry_ shut up) _and kisses him hard. She can hear the clicks and snaps around her as the flash of a camera shines through her closed eyelids, and she knows that people must be taking pictures. Idly, she wonders if she and Barry will make the front page of some stupid celebrity gossip magazine when this gets out tomorrow morning, but then he's kissing her back, responding with enthusiasm, bringing a hand up to cup the back of her head and pull her closer, and she realizes she doesn't really care. When she pulls away she can already feel herself smiling, and when she gets a load of the dazed look in his eyes, her grin only grows wider.

A goofy smile spreads across his face, too, and he blinks down at her in awe, because_ did_ _Iris West really just kiss him_ and _oh my God Iris West just kissed him_ and _this feels so surreal_. "Wha–?"

He's so endearingly charmed and oblivious that she has no choice but to kiss him again, this time a quick peck on the nose that leaves him cross-eyed. "You really_ are _adorable_, _Barry Allen."


	41. Hello Jealousy

_**Prompt: Things keep happening to his girlfriend, Becky Cooper, and Barry just thinks it's bad luck. Jealous!Iris (doesn't really follow the prompt exactly; mostly just Jealous!Iris)**_

**xXx**

She slammed her tray down with unnecessary force, causing a few stray french fries to go flying off the edge and scattering across the table. There was sort of an unspoken rule about lunch seats this far into the school year, and that was that even though they weren't assigned, they weren't supposed to change. Groups were solidified, everyone was settled into their own structured, steady rhythm, and while the table you sat at might not always be the same, the arrangement always was–unless, of course, something significant happened, like a falling out or a transfer student or a schedule change. Yeah, she conceded, as she swung her legs angrily over the seat, there were some exceptions.

Becky fucking Cooper was not an exception.

And yet, here she was, sitting right in Iris's spot. The same spot she had occupied for as long as she'd been in school, every time her lunch period happened to line up with Barry's–which wasn't all the time, of course, but still. Always on his left, always by his side. (She'd picked the left when they were younger and just getting to know each other because she was right-handed, and it had given her a definite advantage when stealing his food and poking his arm or stepping on his foot just to bother him. Still did). That space was hers, and hers alone. It was normal, it was expected, it was an undisputed fact that the two of them, despite their different friends, had always been attached at the hip. And here stupid Becky Cooper was with the goddamn nerve to try and take her place.

_Take her place._ She didn't like the sound of that, as though the thought was some ominous premonition. It didn't even cross her mind that Becky was Barry's _girlfriend_, not trying to be his best friend, and Becky couldn't really take her place as the former seeing as Iris had never actually occupied that role in the first place.

"Geez, Iris. Did the test not go well or something?"

Her frown deepened as she sulked, glaring daggers at the unsavory looking piece of chicken on the tray before her. Why had she insisted on buying lunch today, anyway? The french fries weren't worth it and the chicken looked downright inedible, and maybe if she hadn't she could've gotten to the table sooner and this whole little…misunderstanding…could have been avoided altogether.

"Test? What–Oh," she sighed, lifting her head to meet Barry's concerned gaze–which she could do because_ she was sitting fucking across from him _instead of _next to him _because of _fucking Becky Cooper _and_–_right. Test. She'd been stressing about her chemistry exam all week, but the thought of it had completely slipped her mind in her anger. "Oh, no. It went really well, actually." She pursed her lips, determined to hold back the 'thanks to your help' on the tip of her tongue. True, he'd been helping her study nonstop for days for this test, but right now there was someone else sitting in her spot, and she was pissed as hell. Why was he just letting it happen? It felt like a punch in the gut. A betrayal.

"Good, I'm glad," Barry flashed her a smile she refused to return. His grin faltered as he took in her stony silence, the angry set of her mouth, the aggression in the way she tore open a packet of ketchup to squirt on her french fries. "Iris, is something else wrong? And don't say no, because I can tell there is. I know that look."

"Everything's fine, Bartholomew," she snapped, taking vindictive pleasure in the way his eyebrows shot up at the use of his full name, at the whispered _'Oooo, someone's in trouble,' _byher ear from Mina, her friend and teammate, sitting to her right. Everyone, especially Barry, knew she only whipped out his full name when she was feeling in a particularly teasing mood, when she was using at leverage for something, or when she was spectacularly angry. It was pretty clear which one she was at the moment.

"Iris what…?" The kicked-puppy expression that crossed his face was enough to make her regret taking her anger out on him. This was Barry's first girlfriend, she reminded herself. It was probably all new and exciting, maybe even enough so that he'd let that excitement cloud his better judgement. She should be happy for him.

"Sorry, just…bad day, I guess."

"Oh," he frowned, reaching across the table, no doubt to grab her hand and squeeze it reassuringly, rub his thumb over her knuckles like he always did when she was stressed or upset, but his hand stilled halfway at the not-so-subtle little cough from beside him. He tore his gaze away from Iris, concern melting into shock, eyes darting from the murderous expression on Becky's face to the hand she'd just placed on his bicep, fingers wrapping around his arm and nails piercing his skin in disapproval, before drawing his hand back quickly and hiding it underneath the table.

He opened and closed his mouth a few times, shooting Becky another nervous look, before finally settling on a tentative smile and an "I'm sorry to hear that," instead of his customary 'What's wrong?' or 'What happened?' or 'Want to talk about it?'

She felt a twinge of anger bubble up in her chest again as Becky directed Barry's attention back to herself, engaging him in a conversation about the science club's most recent project, at how Barry _allowed_ his attention to be directed away from Iris, and stabbed her chicken with her fork to distract herself.

"Iris, honey, you okay?" Mina asked, eyeing her with concern, but before Iris could open her mouth to respond, an ugly peal of laughter captured her attention. She didn't bother to conceal her glare as she watched Becky throw her head back, reaching out to grab Barry's arm as she laughed far too loudly–really, knowing Barry it had probably been a science pun or something and it could _not _havebeen _that_ funny, _Jesus Christ_–and leaned into Barry, reaching up a hand to run through his hair. Iris clenched her fists so tight the plastic fork she was holding splintered in her grip, and when Becky craned her neck to place a sloppy kiss on Barry's cheek, well. She practically saw red.

She stood abruptly, surprised by her own anger, the blood rushing to her face and her heartbeat in her ears, far too fast and far too loud for her liking.

"Hey, you okay? You don't look too good, Iris."

She shook her head and refused to meet Mina's eyes, feeling her stomach give another uncomfortable lurch. "I just–I don't feel well. I'm going to go to the bathroom."

It was a convincing cover, considering she did feel slightly sick at the sight of Barry and Becky's interlocked hands underneath the table. It was like some awful trap–look up, and witness the disgusting PDA, or look down, and see them fucking holding hands and playing footsies under the table. Before she could look away, as her gaze flickered back up to the couple's happy faces, Becky caught her eye. From the look on her face, it was clear the–the _jerk_ knew Iris had been staring. Was it just her imagination, or was Becky seriously _smirking_ at her?

Iris bit her lip, hesitating for a moment, tearing her gaze away from Becky's smug, knowing grin and directing it to the open water bottle she'd left on the table in front of her, cap twisted off and long forgotten. She made up her mind quickly, positioning her bag on her shoulder so that when she turned, it knocked over the bottle of water, straight onto Becky's lap.

Becky's shouts of indignation as Iris apologized for _accidentally_ knocking the bottle over and getting her soaking wet were enough to bring the smile back to her face as she turned on her heel with one last fake 'sorry' and booked it to the bathroom, wondering why she still felt so angry in the first place.

xXx

School was tiring. Practice right afterward was even more tiring. So when Iris got home, ready to crash and nap for an hour or maybe five, finding that it was already occupied by two very flustered looking teenagers quite aggressively making out was _not_ something she wanted to see.

She slammed the door so loud they jumped apart, Becky straightening up from her position on the couch to glare at her and Barry doing his best to sink lower into it. She could already see that familiar redness creeping into his cheeks.

"Sorry," she said flatly, not at all meaning it. "Must be a draft in here or something."

Barry cleared his throat awkwardly and said in a small voice, "Iris, I, uh, I thought you were staying after for cheer-leading practice?"

"I was. I did. I'm home now. Oh, and FYI, my dad will be home any minute. He just called from the station to say he was leaving." The last part wasn't true, of course–her dad probably wouldn't be home for another few hours, but she didn't really feel too bad for lying when she noticed the purplish marks just beginning to bloom on Barry's neck, his familiar plaid shirt unbuttoned and askew and his hair all messy and tussled, and the smeared state of Becky's lipstick, the way her skirt was rucked up her thighs.

"Joe is…_what_?" Barry all but squeaked, eyes widening in horror. He rolled off the couch, landing on the floor with an ungraceful _thump_, before scrambling back to his feet. "Oh, my God, I'm sorry Beck, but you gotta go. Joe would kill me if…well…"

Becky huffed, sending another pointed glare in Iris's direction, before smoothing down her skirt and gathering up her things, stomping towards the door and tripping over Iris's backpack in the process, (which she so hadn't put there on purpose, positioned in exactly the right place right in front of the door, of _course _not). As soon as Becky had gotten back to her feet and shut the door behind her, Iris turned to face the couch again, practically shaking with anger, a tense silence filling the room as she stared Barry down. He attempted to straighten himself up before looking back at her with trepidation, refusing to back down. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Iris cleared her throat loudly.

"I'm telling him."

"What? Why?" Barry's mouth fell open in shock, his eyes widening in disbelief. Of all the things he'd expected her to say, it clearly hadn't been about ratting him out. "Iris, you wouldn't. You know that's not fair–I never told Joe about all the people you've dated, or even the time I walked in on you and Jesse, um, you know–"

"This is different," she spat, cutting him off, the moment and the horrifying embarrassment that had resulted on both ends still painfully ingrained into her memory. "I wasn't getting it on with _Becky Cooper_, of all people, on the living room couch."

"I wasn't–we weren't–okay, whatever. I don't get why it's any of your concern, really. I mean, why do you hate her so much, anyway?"

The question took her off guard, and she lifted an eyebrow at him in confusion. "Who, Becky? I don't…I don't _hate _her."

"Yeah, you really do. I mean, you do nothing but make rude comments about her and you say her name all weird like you just did just now, like it's something…dirty, I don't know."

"I–" she was about to say '_I do not_', but the words died on her lips as she thought about it because yeah–she kind of did. She floundered for words, suddenly desperate to explain herself. "It's not…I don't mean…um…"

"I just–I wanna know, is there a reason for it? Like…" Barry rubbed the back of his neck, staring at Iris's shoes, before looking up to peer at her through his lashes. The look he gave her was strange–frustrated, quizzical, searching, and…was it just her imagination, or was it just a tad bit…hopeful? "You're not…jealous, are you?"

The word seemed to echo throughout the living room and inside Iris's head, bouncing around and making something in her chest clench, something she hadn't even known was there. She wasn't…she couldn't actually be jealous of Becky Cooper, she assured herself, balling her hands into fists. No–not a chance.

"Jealous?" she scoffed, throwing in an incredulous little laugh for good measure, laying it on thick and hoping Barry hadn't notice the way her voice had cracked. Really, she shouldn't be trying so hard, because the prospect of her being jealous of Becky Cooper _was_ ridiculous…right? And yet, she felt stomach squirm uncomfortably at the thought, because_ wow–_that word hit way closer to home then it should've, and…no, this was Barry, her best friend, she just wanted him to be happy and–she couldn't be jealous…could she? Certainly not of his romantic life… She swallowed hard and feigned disinterest, waving a hand in the air and rolling her eyes. "Please, why on Earth would I be jealous of your _girlfriend_?"

"I–no reason. I mean, of course you wouldn't," Barry grumbled, crossing his arms, suddenly looking very miserable and doing a poor job at hiding it. "Just forget it. It was a stupid question. I'm just gonna–I'm going upstairs, okay? Tell Joe whatever you want, I don't care. I doubt he'd even believe you, anyway. No one expects anyone to be interested in me like that, anyway."

Iris stood there, taken aback, but before she could find her voice again to respond, to tell him that of course she wasn't _actually _going to say anything, he'd already hefted his backpack over his shoulder, striding over to the staircase to take the steps two at a time. She considered calling after him, but decided against if as she heard a door slam. Making her way over to the couch Barry and his _girlfriend_ (and wow–did she always think of the word with such venom? why was she just noticing it now?) had recently vacated, she sat down hard, unsure of what exactly it was she was feeling. Was that anger making her stomach churn, frustration making her cheeks heat up, making her palms feel sweaty? Or was it guilt? Regret? One thing was for sure, she thought to herself, dropping her head in her hands and heaving a sigh–she was definitely confused.

xXx

"Where's Becky?" Iris asked Barry at lunch a couple of weeks after 'the couch incident', bitterly taking the seat across from Barry at the lunch table, the seat she'd unfortunately been forced to come to terms with sitting in as long as the Beckster was around, making a conscious effort to keep the dislike out of her voice. She really was trying. God, the things she did for this boy. "She sick or something?"

"Oh, no, we broke up," Barry stated bluntly, shrugging his shoulders and picking absentmindedly at his sandwich, as casual as if he'd just told her the weather.

"Oh." Iris blinked in surprise, a strange feeling rushing through her and making her feel a little light-headed, one she dutifully tried to tamp down when her mind supplied the word 'relief'. _Get a grip, West,_ she scolded herself. _You don't know what happened yet. And you shouldn't be feeling relieved that your best friend is single again. That's just–oh my god. _"What…?"

"I broke up with her," he clarified, reading the question in her eyes.

"Okay, not that I'm complaining, but…why?"

"Well, you were right. She was kind of a nightmare. I mean, God, where do I begin. She was super controlling, especially about–well, about you. Like, she didn't want me spending time with you, but you've been my best friend for as long as I've known you, so I don't know how she thought that was going to work out. And she would threaten to break up with me every time I didn't want to do exactly what she wanted to do. She was a pro at guilt-tripping."

Iris gaped at him, torn between relief that he'd ended it, that he'd finally seen the light, annoyance and a stab of anger that he'd never told her any of this when they always told each other everything, and horror that he'd put up with Becky's shit for so long.

"That's–wow. I'm sorry. And…I'm not going to say I told you so, but…okay, I totally told you so. I _knew _she was awful. I could feel it in my bones. And you know how my gut feelings usually are. Always right."

Barry rolled his eyes at her, taking a bite from his sandwich and swallowing with a grimace. "Yeah, well, no need to rub it in. Excuse me for being excited that someone was actually interested in me for once."

"You know I didn't mean it like that," Iris relented, reaching across the table to lay a comforting hand over his, reveling in the fact that she could do so openly again, without hearing the tell-tale tongue-clicking noise of disapproval from she-who-must-not-be-named. "You deserve better, Bear, I mean it. Someone who really acknowledges and appreciates what an amazing guy you are."

"Ah, well, thanks," Barry mumbled, ducking his head to hide his smile and keeping his gaze fixed on the table, the tell-tale redness in his cheeks giving him away. Iris felt a strange flutter in her stomach at the sight of him blushing, and she frowned at the way the familiar graze of Barry thumb over her knuckles as he shifted their hands so that his was on top made her skin tingle._ What was going on with her?_

She felt someone nudge her in the side, and looked over to find Mina giving her a pointed look, raising an eyebrow at her and then gesturing towards Barry–no, towards the empty spot _next _to Barry. Iris grinned in understanding and mouthed a silent 'thank you' to her friend, who gave her a thumbs up in return. She pulled her hand out from underneath Barry's, pushed her bagged lunch over to him, and ducked underneath the table.

"Iris, wha–?" he started to ask, startled, but before he could finish his question she'd popped up by his side, nearly making him topple backwards in surprise. She clambered onto the seat, righting herself before turning to him with a playful smirk.

"Well, is this seat taken?" She felt her grin widen as she watched the realization dawn on him, the sudden brightness in his eyes, the slow, goofy smile that spread across his face.

"Nope, not at all. Please. It's all yours," he paused before knocking a shoulder into hers, eyes going soft. "Always will be."

"Good. That's what I thought."

_As it should be,_ she thought to herself, reaching over to steal a chip from the bag Barry'd just opened, feeling lighter and more content than she had in weeks._ As it should be be._


	42. Holding it Together

_**Prompt: the straw that broke the camel's back**_

**xXx**

She's only been living here for three months. Three measly months, and it feels like only yesterday that she'd been unpacking these boxes with a smile on her face and a thrill of anticipation at this exciting new development in her life, at the prospect of sharing a space, a _home_, with someone she loved–these very same boxes that she now stuffs her belongings in with shaking hands and trembling fingers and a lump in her throat.

When she'd first come to live with Eddie, she'd tried to ignore the nagging little voice in her head telling her that she had already done that, had already shared that kind of living space with someone who, whether or not she realized it at the time, fit those qualifications–for over_ ten years_, in fact–but that little ball of uncertainty in the pit of her stomach refused to budge. And no matter how hard she tried to make it go away, it still hadn't budged as time had trickled by, as days became weeks and weeks became months. Thinking about it now made her feel queasy, because the fact remained that despite all her doubt, she'd just moved in here three months ago, a little apprehensive and a lot unsure but ultimately in love and _happy_, and now she's already moving out. And not for the reason she once thought it might be.

Her fingers brush against something as she absentmindedly searches through the drawer in the nightstand, looking for any last loose items of hers that need to go. Her blood runs cold as she scoops the object into her hand, the sharp edges of the tiny little box cutting into her palm as she squeezes it tight, shielding it from view. Without even having to look, she knows what it is, what it must be, and she's not ready for this, God, not now, not ever, _she's not ready_.

She forces herself to loosen her grip anyway, and her breath hitches in her throat at the sight of the pale green box resting on her palm. Her heartbeat speeds up and it feels like a block of ice has slipped into her stomach along with the sensation that she's falling, falling, falling, and it's not a surprise that she suddenly feels dizzy, like the room is spinning around her, like the ground is about to open up and swallow her whole.

Slowly, mechanically, as though in a trance, she opens it up, and sure enough, it's still there. The ring. The ring that Eddie was going to propose to her with, that he'd tried to and then hadn't, but probably would have tried again after all. The ring that she'll never wear, won't ever get the chance, whether or not it would've been the right decision. It doesn't matter anymore, it doesn't matter what she would've said or what he would've said or if it would've been what she wanted because she'll never get to make that choice, and Eddie is dead, he's dead, _he's dead_. He's not coming back.

There's a rushing in her ears as she sinks to the ground, clutching it tightly to her chest, the walls of a bedroom that was only hers for three months closing in around her, her vision going blurry–whether from the tears or from the way her head is spinning she can't tell. All she knows is that she can't do this. She can't do this _alone_, she can't, she needs someone who will hold her, reassure her, who won't leave her side, who will know all the right things to say and who will be patient with her, who will let her cry into their shirt and not care that she's making a mess out herself and them and–

She needs her best friend.

With fumbling fingers she fishes her phone out of her pocket, letting the little green box tumble to the ground, and presses a button, blinking away tears and thanking God for speed dial. He picks up on the second ring. The sound of his voice in the midst of all this feels like a warm blanket being draped around her shoulders.

"Hello?"

She takes a deep breath and tries to find the courage to speak, because things between them are still complicated, and while she knows he's always there for her maybe this is too much too soon because she knows how much he blames himself, and maybe an irrational little part of her blames him, too, even though she knows it's not his fault. And it's not like they've talked much since it happened, because he seems to think that space is what she wants, what she needs, but it's not, it's not, it's not. Right now, she needs him.

"Barry, I–" she starts, but the words get stuck in her throat, and all that comes out is a sob. She tries her hardest to hold it back but she can't, and then her breath is coming out in short little gasps and she tries and she tries but _she can't fucking stop_.

"Iris? Iris, are you okay?" Barry asks, his voice rising with panic, "What happened? Where are you?"

"I'm–" she stops herself from feeding him a lie he won't believe, from bottling everything up and pretending to be okay, because he knows her and he can tell when she's lying (she wishes she could say the same, but now…now's not the time for that train of thought). "I'm not fine. I'm at my–Eddie's apartment, packing, because–because I can't–" She wants to say _'stay here any longer'_ or maybe _'do this alone'_, but in the end she can't seem to find the words. It doesn't matter, anyway, because she knows he'll understand.

There's a brief pause, and Iris can picture him running a hand down his face, can imagine the distress in his eyes as clearly as if he's sitting right in front of her. For a moment, she thinks she might be asking too much, that she's being selfish, that she shouldn't have called. But when he speaks again his voice is firm, and her uncertainty melts away.

"I'll be right over."

When he hangs up she knows he must be running, and she idly wonders where he is or what he's dropping to come to her. Her phone slips through numb fingers, and as she waits she doesn't move a muscle, couldn't even if she tried, because there's this crushing heaviness that's settled on her skin and somehow she knows she doesn't have the strength to stand. When he finds her like that, curling into herself on the floor, there's none of the flash of light and rush of wind that's she's slowly growing accustomed to at his arrival. Instead, he approaches her quietly, with careful footsteps, and for that she's grateful.

He must see the box lying on the ground in front of her, because he picks it up gently and places it on the nightstand before kneeling down in front of her, tilting her chin up with careful fingers. "Iris…" he says softly, sadly, until she finds the strength to lift her gaze and look him in the eye. Her lip trembles and she can feel the tears spilling over again, and she knows she must look a mess but she also knows Barry doesn't care. The sheer, unadulterated concern in his eyes is enough to make her break down again.

He pulls her into a hug and wraps his arms tight around her, and she buries her face in his shoulder and cries. And cries, and cries. It doesn't matter how much time passes, how long they stay like that, because with every hitch of her breath he just holds her tighter. After a while, after she finds that she has the strength to lift her arms again, she returns the embrace, clinging to him like a lifeline. He holds her until she stops shaking, until she's cried herself dry, and then he keeps on holding her. It's exactly what she needs.


	43. Spin the Bottle

_**Prompt: "we've been best friends for practically our whole lives but you're a thousand times more popular than me so you dragged me to a big party and now we're playing spin the bottle and you spin and it lands on me oh crap"**_

**xXx**

Contrary to popular belief, the first time he kisses Iris isn't actually on a shoreline with a tsunami fast approaching and their lives on the line, or some great act of love and passion and mutually recognized feelings in a timeline that technically no longer exists. And likewise, the first time he kisses _anyone _isn't Becky Cooper, even though she is his first girlfriend. That spot's surprisingly reserved by Iris too, their freshman year of high school, on an ordinary Friday night in Nicole Tacker's basement.

Transitioning into high school from his painfully awkward middle school years, Barry didn't really have friends. He had acquaintances, sure, and he had Iris. Unlike him, however, Iris had other friends of her own–and lots of them. Which was understandable, really–it was sort of impossible _not _to like Iris, to want to get to know her, be her friend. Fact of the matter was that Iris, being her peppy and popular self, got invited to things. A lot of things. And he did not.

Which he was fine with, honestly. Going out really wasn't his thing anyway, and he preferred to stay at home and read or conduct science experiments in the garage or watch TV and–okay, maybe he did get a little bit lonely sometimes, a little bit jealous of Iris's social life compared to his own nonexistent one. The thing was, it wasn't like Iris didn't try to include him. She did, she really did, he just didn't want to drag her down with him, and so every time she tried to get him to come with her to any sort of social gathering, he usually declined. Except for the Friday night the weekend after his first big calculus exam, to a much-talked about party at Nicole Tacker's house that she'd dragged him to, refusing to take no as an answer, insisting that he needed to get out and _relax_.

"But I wasn't invited, Iris," he'd insisted, sighing in exasperation. She'd just grinned at him and shaken her head fondly.

"Doesn't matter. I was, and you're coming with me." Which, all things considered, was probably true. If Iris brought him, he'd be allowed in for sure. He just wasn't sure he wanted to, because he wouldn't really know anyone there other than Iris and he didn't want to trail her around all night like some lost puppy. But then she'd given him The Look, the one she knew he could never refuse and that she almost never hesitated to take advantage of, and he'd caved, of course.

And that's how he ended up in Nicole's basement, sitting cross-legged in a circle of people that he mostly didn't know, save for Iris seated directly across from him, trapped into playing a game of spin-the-bottle. And how that bottle, when it was his turn to spin it, had spun, and spun, and spun, for an agonizing fifteen seconds before finally landing on the person directly across from him. He checked again, hoping the bottle might have moved in the second he'd looked down and up and back down again in a mixture of dread and anticipation, but nope. Still the person sitting across from him. Which was Iris. Iris was sitting across from him. Holy shit, _Iris._

He lifted his gaze from the bottle, mouth falling open in disbelief, only to find her staring right back at him with wide-eyes and a similarly baffled expression.

"I–no, no, I can't," he stuttered, forcing out the words with great difficulty, because he _wanted_ to more than anything. How many times had he fantasized about sharing a kiss with Iris West? Far too many too count, and far too often. It was rare that a day passed by that he didn't at least_ think_ about it, especially seeing her as much as he did. But not like this. Not with everyone watching, not when she didn't want to, not when it wasn't _real_.

"What, afraid to kiss your friend-sister, or whatever the hell you guys are?" someone chimed in–a person who Barry didn't know well enough to even recognize their face, let alone their name. One of Iris's friend's, maybe.

"I am _not _his sister," Iris snapped, looking thoroughly annoyed. Barry blinked in surprise and snapped his mouth, which he'd just opened, response at the ready and on the tip of his tongue, shut. Iris usually just shrugged comments like that off; she never outright denied it when people said those kinds of things–that was his job.

"I mean, I'm not–we're not related. At all. We're just best friends," she added hastily, staring intently at the bottle, still pointed straight at her, and Barry wondered why it was suddenly such a big deal that she make sure people know. She never seemed to care, before. He did, of course, for obvious reasons, but he hadn't thought she had. "And we're not going to back down that easily. Come on, Barry, let's show 'em. It won't be that bad–I promise you'll live."

'_I highly doubt that' _he thought to himself, still struggling to get a grip, because while the thought of kissing Iris was a lot, actually doing it was–well, he didn't know if he could handle that, to be honest. He'd probably go into shock, or cardiac arrest, or something.

"I–I don't know, Iris, are you sure–?"

"Come on, Barry, the rule is that it only has to be three seconds. We can manage. You know how I feel about losing," she said, giving him a pointed look. He tried to point out that it was technically his turn, not hers, so he'd be the one losing, but whatever words he'd meant to say failed him. Iris was scootching towards him, clearly expecting him to meet her in the middle. And he did, because what choice did he have, shuffling forward on his knees, as Iris answered his unspoken question for him. They came to a stop in front of each other, and she reached a hand out to clamp on his shoulder. "You're my plus one, dude, so if you lose, I lose by default."

He gave her a tentative nod of understanding–because Iris was Iris and it made some sort of sense going by her logic–before taking a deep breath, steeling his nerves, and praying for the best. The people in the circle around them cheering them on, telling him to _just do it already_, were suddenly just background noise as he surged forward, eyes shut tight and going out on a whim–until he missed her mouth entirely and bumped his nose with hers, eliciting a painful little _'ouch_' from the both of them.

"Okay, okay, let's try that again," Iris laughed, rubbing her nose, as Barry ran a shaky hand across his forehead in mortification. Iris grabbed his hand before he could hide it in his lap, taking it in her own and squeezing it reassuringly. "Here, let me try this time."

Keeping his eyes open hadn't been intentional, but once they were like that he found he couldn't close them, as Iris's face moved closer and closer. And then before he could prepare himself, before he could even catch his breath, she was kissing him. On the lips. Not a peck on the cheek or a kiss on the forehead like he was accustomed to, but an actual, honest-to-God, mouth-to-mouth kiss. How could he look away when Iris was kissing him, she was kissing him, and her face was so close and so beautiful and he could taste her lips on his and someone, or maybe several someones, was chanting _one-and-two-and-three…and four-and-five…and-six-and-um are they gonna stop soon?-and-seven-and-eight-and-nine-and-ten-and-eleven-and–GUYS! THAT'S ENOUGH YOU CAN STOP NOW IT'S BEEN OVER TEN SECONDS YOU CAN STOP!_

He pulled away from her with an audible little gasp, the room around him, the people he barely knew, the musty smell from the paint peeling off the walls of Nicole's basement, the music blaring from the speakers propped up on the plastic chair in the corner, all came rushing back, and Iris was still there, as surreal as if felt, only inches away from him.

As she leaned back, he watched her face, transfixed by the length of time it took for her to open her eyes–not immediate, but slow and sweet–, at the little crease between her eyebrows and her slightly parted lips. When she finally lifted her gaze to meet his, he felt a momentary thrill of hope at the look in her eyes, dazed and filled with awe, much like he imagined his own must be–but it was gone as quick as it came. A blink, and it was gone, replaced with a cool sort of indifference as though she'd felt nothing, and a hint of embarrassment, too. She rocked back on her heels and crinkled her nose, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

"See, Bar?" she said, letting out a too-loud laugh and giving him a smile he could tell was a little forced. "That wasn't too awful, was it? Not the end of the world."

His heart, still thud, thud, thudding away in his chest, suddenly felt as though it had been ripped out and stepped on in all of its pathetic, hopeful glory. This was only ever a game, he reminded himself, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Nothing more. This didn't count as anything, not to her. And this certainly wasn't how he wanted or imagined his first kiss would go–which was his fault, really, because he imagined it way too often, with way unrealistic standards, but still.

Even through the disappointment, the sting of knowing that the kiss meant nothing to more to Iris than it would have had she shared it with anyone else, he couldn't resist running his tongue over his lips to savor the taste of her strawberry-flavored chapstick, to hold on to it for just a moment longer, to pretend. He shook his head, forcing himself to focus, to get a hold of himself, and followed her lead, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand and then wiping his hands on his jeans–not to get rid of the traces of her, but more so because his palms were still sweaty from nerves and the sudden, unexpected heat of the moment.

"No," he said, forcing a smile of his own. He was only half-lying, really, because while the hot rush of embarrassment at knowing that Iris didn't and maybe never would feel the same way and the crushing disappointment that followed, kissing Iris in itself had been more than just 'not awful', it had been downright incredible. But there was nothing he could do but pick up and move on as he had since he'd first developed this stupid crush in the first place, and then as this stupid crush had just had to go develop into something even more, carrying his unrequited feelings around him like a weight on his shoulders. Except now at least he knew where he stood…but he also knew what it felt like to kiss her now, how it–well. It was a win-lose situation, he guessed. Go figure. "Not the end of the world."


	44. The Accidental Intruder

_**Prompt(s): "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?" and "Well this is awkward…"**_

**xXx**

As she reached out, preparing to fish through the cluttered mess of her purse to search for her keys, the door knob turned unexpectedly under the pressure from her hand. With a brief flicker of confusion, she stopped rooting through her bag to turn it all the way, pushing the door open and stumbling into her apartment with eyes half-shut in exhaustion. She didn't remember leaving the door open—in fact she never really left it unlocked, because growing up as a cop's daughter she'd practically had it drilled into her head to always remember to lock up before leaving the house unattended.

The thought troubled her for a solid half-a-second before the concern fell flat, her mind too tired, her body too heavy with exhaustion to focus on anything for long. All she could really think of was her bed and being in it, as soon as possible, because it was _late_. Far too late, really, to just be getting home, kicking off her boots and shutting the door to her apartment quietly behind her, not even bothering to turn on the lights. Her eyelids were droopy and her vision blurry from fatigue, so it didn't really matter that she couldn't see, anyway.

God, she thought, shrugging out of her coat and tossing it carelessly to the floor along with her purse, she was far too good of a person. Putting in a full day's worth of work in at CCPN, finally finishing up her latest article on the recent spike and even more recent drop in crime in Central City and all the reasons behind that–strangely-powered people and the Flash included–, only to receive a text from her former co-worker Beth on her way out the door.

"_I know you're on to bigger and better things, West," _the message had read, _"and that you're some big-shot reporter now, but I also know that you still have a key to Jitters, and that Terry likes you enough that she says you're welcome back whenever. I know you don't exactly need the extra hours, but could you do me a huuuuuge favor? My sister is in the hospital, there was some accident–she's okay, but still, I want to be there for her. Would you cover my closing shift for me? Pleaaaaase? I'd owe you big time. Like, free coffee for a week big time."_

To her credit, Iris had kept her whining to Linda minimal, knowing there was no way she could say no and keep a clean conscience, before replying with a quick _"fine. but only because i love u (and free coffee)"_ and then a follow-up _"hope your sister is okay3_". Which was how she ended up working all day at CCPN and then heading straight to Jitters right after to work the closing shift on a busy Friday night, subsequently locking up the place all on her own, and utterly exhausted.

She felt her way through the apartment, making a beeline towards her bedroom, her _bed_—her beautiful, wonderful bed, lumpy mattress and thin sheets and all—trailing her fingers absentmindedly along the walls. It was easy to slip out her clothes—thank the Lord for dresses—and she fumbled with the clasp of her bra for a few frustrating seconds before finally winning the battle, tossing it carelessly to the side and flopping down face-first on the bed. She laid there, unmoving, too tired to even make the effort to climb underneath the covers.

Come tomorrow morning, she knew she was totally going to regret not going through her usual nighttime ritual—taking off her makeup, brushing her teeth, washing her face, maybe taking a shower, wrapping her hair, etc.—but she was so goddamn exhausted that she couldn't bring herself to care. Besides, tomorrow was her day off, so if she looked like hell in the morning—well. She probably wouldn't even be leaving her apartment, save for karaoke night with Linda, and that wasn't till later at night anyway.

She let out a contented sigh, burying her face into the pillow and wiggling her toes, basking in the softness (wasn't her mattress hard? huh) and snuggling into the warmth. It registered, somewhere in the back of her sleep addled brain, that there was something about her bed that felt…off, and curiously unfamiliar. She took a deep breath, and vaguely noted that the scent lingering on her pillow, although certainly not unpleasant, was unfamiliar too, but she let out the breath she'd been holding and before she could contemplate it any further, before her head even hit the pillow, she was already fast asleep.

xXx

It wasn't light filtering through her window or the sound of birds chirping or even the shrill scream of her alarm that woke her up like it normally would, but rather a loud crashing noise, followed by a string of angry curses, and in the few seconds it took for the grogginess to clear somewhat from her mind, she registered that it was still dark out and that it clearly wasn't morning yet, along with one other thing—one other really, really terrifying thing.

_Intruder._ Someone here, someone breaking in, _in her bedroom_.

She rolled over, any and all concerns about modesty swiftly abandoned, and scrambled over to the side of the bed, reaching underneath for the bat she kept there in case of—well, in case of this—except…it wasn't there. Her fingers brushed against nothing but carpet and she blinked, sitting back up in confusion, really taking in the room before her for the first time since she'd gotten home and—it wasn't…her room. She frantically looked down at the sheets she was sitting on, and—nope, definitely not her bed.

It was just as this unfortunate realization hit her that she met the stranger's eyes—not the intruder's, not anymore, because apparently, if this wasn't her room, well, _she _was the intruder in this situation. He stumbled back and nearly fell into her—_his_—dresser as he took notice of her presence, finally having recovered from his noisy entrance. He blinked at her in confusion and quiet amazement, and although it was too dark to make out his exact features, she could definitely see the pale skin of his face, lit up by the moonlight filtering through the open window he'd just crawled through, turning red at the sight of her, his gaze dipping lower for half-a-second and then hastily back up again, eyes wide and stunned speechless.

She hastily pulled the sheets up to cover her exposed chest as he averted his gaze, abashed and embarrassed, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing the heels of his palms against them as though expecting the sight before him to disappear any second. Which it didn't, because when he opened his eyes again a moment later Iris was still frozen to the very same spot in mortification. He opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, seemingly at a loss for words, until he finally managed to find his voice.

"Well—uh, wow, this is awkward," he blurted out, scrambling to find the right thing to say, "but is there a reason why you're, uh, naked…in my bed?"

From the little that Iris could see, his face seemed to be getting redder with every word he spoke, although she noted with some relief that he wasn't staring. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to keep his gaze fixed on the floor, on the ceiling, to the side—anywhere but on her. Which was good, considering her current predicament, so…thank God for small wonders. Still, even without his eyes on her she felt incredibly embarrassed, wanting nothing more than to sink right through the bed, through the ground, through anything and everything as long as it was away from this room that wasn't her own.

She was about to explain herself—except honestly, how could she explain herself, why she was there, what she was doing, how she got there, this was just…oh my God—when she noticed that his face wasn't the only thing on him that was red. In fact, he was dressed in a head-to-toe red leather suit, with the cowl pushed back, and he—oh. Oh. _Holy shit_, she was in the Flash's apartment. She scrambled over to the nightstand to flick on the light there, still clutching the sheet tight to her chest with one hand, instantly bathing the room in light.

"Oh my God," she breathed, getting a better look at his face. She had always wondered why her next-door neighbor in this apartment complex was so secretive, so mysterious. She had assumed it must be something scandalous, or maybe something strange, had come up with every scenario under the sun—including, ironically, that he could be some criminal mastermind, living a life of crime by day and hiding out in his apartment by night, hardly ever seen—but this…this was something else. This was a lot. Her cute next-door neighbor, who she only ever exchanged hurried 'hellos' and 'goodbyes' with when they would happen to run into each other in the hallway, was the Flash. "You're—you're—"

Something in her tone must have finished the sentence for him even though she couldn't actually get the words out herself, because his gaze snapped up to meet hers before following it downward to his current attire, his eyes going comically wide as the realization hit him, as though he hadn't even realized he'd been wearing it.

"Oh, fuck," he groaned, dropping his head into his gloved hands. He stayed like that for a moment, obviously horrified, before lifting his head and dragging a hand down his face, turning pleading eyes on her. "I was distracted, I forgot—I, uh—I didn't—you weren't—fuck. Please don't tell anyone, please, I'm begging you, I—"

"Relax," she said, holding up her free hand as a peace offering. Despite herself, and despite the lingering humiliation she felt at her situation, she found a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. His fumbling was sort of…endearing. And strangely enough, it put her at least a little bit more at ease. "I'm not really in any position to be, uh, _exposing_ your identity to anyone. But—wow. Wow. I can't believe you're—actually, you know what, this just got, like, ten times more humiliating."

He arched an eyebrow at her, and she hastened to explain.

"It's just—not only am I completely naked in a stranger's bed—"

"Completely?" he squeaked. If his eyes got any wider, Iris observed, she wouldn't be surprised if they popped right out of his head. She gave him a withering look, and he rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "Okay—sorry, sorry, go on."

"Not _completely_, I'm wearing underwear, but that's—not the point, okay, as I was _saying_—not only am I _almost _completely naked in a stranger's bed, I'm naked in _the Flash's_ bed, a literal superhero, Central City's pride and joy, and—"

"—and your next-door neighbor," he finished for her. "Really, I'm just your next door neighbor. I'm just—well, I'm not that special."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, rolling her eyes, "I doubt you're _'just' _anything. And I beg to differ on the whole 'not special' thing." She paused, tilting her head and regarding him with curiosity. "I didn't even think you'd recognize me. I mean, we're neighbors, sure, but we've barely interacted, and we've never even been properly introduced. And you probably interact with, like, tons of people in this city when you're zipping around saving everyone. I'm sure anyone's face would be easy to forget, and—"

"No," he cut her off, and the certainty in his voice surprised her, left her at a loss for words. He seemed to realize that she'd fallen silent, because he coughed awkwardly and gave her a nervous little smile before offering up an explanation. "I mean, your face is—it's—um, it's definitely not easy to forget, is what I'm trying to say. And I'm sorry that I never introduced myself when I moved in, I really wanted to, and I don't want you to think I was being impolite, I just—I thought that with what I do, with the kind of life I have, it'd be smarter to keep to myself, you know? Outside of my friends that already know, of course, but I figured it'd be better if I could make a fresh start moving away from my old place, because I think they were starting to get suspicious, and…yeah."

"Oh," she blinked, a slow smile of her own spreading across her face, "well, thanks. But your secret's safe with me. Which, now that I know, we should probably properly introduce ourselves and all. I'm Iris West."

"Yeah, that's true, uh, nice to meet you Iris. I'm Barry. Barry Allen."

So the Flash's name was Barry. She smiled to herself. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but something about it was cute, just like pretty much everything about him. A brief silence fell between them as Iris got lost in thought, mind still working a mile-a-minute to process everything, before his voice broke through it again.

"So, we should—um, we should probably talk, because now you know about my…thing. Thing as in the whole secret identity and all! Um, also, uh, you're still…" he trailed off, shuffling his feet awkwardly and gesturing vaguely to her, in his bed, and—oh. Right. She felt the heat rush to her face as she remembered why she was there, uninvited, in the first place.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. You're right. We should talk, but first would you be so kind as to pass me my dress? It's right—actually, you know what, I know it's your apartment and all, but could you just give me like…a minute? To get dressed? I'll be quick."

"Sure thing, I'll just—I'll be in the living room. And by living room I mean the really small area outside this room with the couch and TV, basically just the room that's not the kitchen, in case you were—okay, sorry, I'm leaving now."

He turned on his heel and was out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him, in literally seconds, and it took Iris a moment to gather her bearings, to remember that he could do that, obviously, because he was the Flash.

_Fuck._

She counted to ten in her head, struggling to get a hold of herself, before swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She hastily snatched up her dress from the floor, taking a few moments to locate the bra she'd tossed aside. When she was finally fully clothed, she took a few calming breaths before emerging from the room, eyes sweeping the place and quickly locating Barry. He was sitting on an old, worn-out looking couch and staring blankly ahead at the TV, even though the screen was black and the thing obviously wasn't on, and he was twiddling his thumbs nervously. She had the distinct feeling that he'd cleaned the place up in the minute it had taken her to get dressed, because there were things stuffed in and under places they clearly weren't supposed to be, and no young twenty-something-year-old's apartment looked as clean as this–clean enough where could actually _see_ the floor. Hell, hers certainly didn't.

She cleared her throat to announce her presence, and covered her mouth with a hand when he jumped, startled out of his daze at the sudden noise, to hide her laugh. He gave her an awkward smile and gestured to the couch for her to sit, hastily pushing himself off of it and standing up in the process. This time, she noticed with a hint of gratification, he was doing a really poor job at concealing his staring. Now that she wasn't so exposed, and now that she was being just as open and obvious with her appraisal of him as he was being with her, it was sort of flattering.

"Uh, you can sit here, and I'll just—I'll stand, if it makes you more comfortable, I know it's a small couch and I don't want to—"

"Barry, it's fine," she giggled, taking a seat and patting the spot next to her. "Sit down, please."

He hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to her, and she noted with some amusement that he wasn't kidding—it really was a small couch. Their legs were nearly touching, knees almost knocking together, and although he seemed to be pushing himself as far into the corner of it as possible, she could tell that he felt it too. Something strange, but not unpleasant, passing between them. Almost like a shock, a spark of electricity that made her skin feel all hot and tingly.

Another deep breath, and then she was talking, asking question after question as they popped into her head, the nervous fluttery feeling in her stomach fading as full-on reporter mode took over. Barry, bless his soul, took it all in stride, answering where he could and trying his best to keep up with her—and really, once she got him talking, he seemed excited to talk about it, to share such a secret part of himself with someone else, someone new. She was a little surprised at how quickly he seemed to place his trust in her, but not at all disappointed. After all, she had a feeling about him, too, and she thought that that might have something to do with it. And then, as their conversation about particle accelerators and meta-humans and day jobs came to an end, it was her turn to talk. Which actually wasn't nearly as hard or horrible as she expected it to be, all things considered.

She was just finishing up explaining how she ended up in his bed in the first place, how she'd been in a zombie-like state of exhaustion and had mistaken his apartment for hers, when something hit her.

"Wait—so, let me get this straight. I was able to walk right into your place, which means your door was unlocked," she clarified, eyes narrowing, and Barry nodded his understanding. He'd seemed pretty sympathetic throughout her whole story, and it didn't take much to recognize that he was the kind of person who'd probably had his fair share of embarrassing moments. He didn't seem like the type to judge, anyway. "You're telling me that you deal with dangerous criminals, not to mention all these extremely dangerous metahuman people with all these weird powers on a daily basis, and you left your freaking door unlocked? Really?"

He frowned at her accusatory tone, holding his hands up in defense. "Hey, I didn't mean to! I was rushing out the door, there was an emergency, and I—"

"Relax, dude," she laughed, relenting, before he could get himself worked up. "I'm just messing with you. Mostly. But it does bring me to my next question, which is…why were you climbing through the window to get into your place? Why not just go through the front door?"

He shrugged. "I always go through the window when I'm getting back late from Flash business and stuff, when I'm in the suit. Just in case, you know? I don't want to attract any unwanted attention, or accidentally run into someone who might see me—or see something speeding into my apartment, at least, which would be just as much of a giveaway."

Iris nodded. That made sense enough. Although, now that she thought about it, she had been woken up more than once in the past few weeks from some sort of racket outside, always at ungodly hours of the night and early morning, which now, looking back, had probably been from him 'sneaking in' to his own apartment. She'd have to remind him to try to be more subtle with that in the future—but for now, she let the matter drop. She had more pressing things on her mind.

"Got it. So…about getting to know each other…what do you say about meeting at Jitters tomorrow morning for coffee? I'm sure I'll be seeing more of you, now that you don't have to hide away in your apartment all the time. At least I better be. Trust me, I'm very persistent."

"You will. I mean–I'd like that. And coffee sounds great," he smiled, eyes lighting up in excitement. It was—well, it was adorable.

"Good," she smirked. After all this night had put her through, things had actually turned out…really nice. Strange, definitely, and a little overwhelming, but nice. And amazingly enough, everything seemed to be working out in her favor and paying off in one way or another—including her exhaustion-induced accidental break-in, and even her extended work day. "Because it just so happens I have a friend that owes me free drinks for a week."


	45. Breathless

_**Prompt: "We pass each other every day while we're **__**biking**__** running on the same path so we've started smiling at each other and one day you're stopped because you're having an asthma attack so I offer you my extra water bottle and now we're talking and now I'M the one who's breathless AU" **_

**xXx**

Iris West is friends with the devil. More specifically, she's friends with Linda Park, who–no matter what lies she'll try to feed you–most definitely _coerced_ her lovely roommate, her poor, faithful best friend, to run a 5K for charity.

And here's the thing: Iris doesn't run. Like, ever. That's not a thing that she does, that she ever wanted to do, that was ever supposed to happen—unless, say, she was being chased by a murderer, or relentlessly pursued by some wild animal, or outrunning some natural disaster, and even then, she's not so sure…

Anyway: running. Not a thing.

Except that apparently it is now, because she's such a goddamn good friend that she agreed to sign up for this stupid thing (under the assumption, of course, that Linda was planning on running it with her. Which she's apparently not, and waited until after Iris had already signed up to tell her that fun little piece of information–the fucking traitor).

That's how she's come to this sad, sad reality: running every day, every _fucking _day (except Mondays, which don't count in her book anyway), after all her classes, in that space of time before nightfall but well past the afternoon. A time where she should be watching Netflix, or eating, or relaxing, or doing work or, you know, _not running. _But no, she's stuck following some random-ass 'couch-to-5K' training plan that she found online. Literally the first result to come up on Google, too, because she hadn't cared enough to find a better one.

There's also the added complication that she attends a University in the city, and there's not exactly ample places to run when you have to stop at every streetlight or else run the risk of getting hit by a car, and she's already tired of the usual loop around campus.

About two or three weeks into her training (she can finally jog for more than ten minutes without having to stop, or feeling like she's going to pass out, who would've thought?), she runs far off enough off campus to find the perfect trail, a quiet little slice of woods in an otherwise busy, bustling city.

It's pretty hidden, too, so for a whole, blissful mile, she thinks she has it all to herself, that she's hit the jackpot, that surely no one else knows about it, and thank God–she _finally_ doesn't have to worry about people judging her for going so slow.

But it's just as she's thinking this, about how very alone she is, when she claps her eyes on him for the first time. He's going so fast, so caught in the zone, that he doesn't even look her way, doesn't notice that she's even there as he zooms right past her. Which is a shame, really, because he is _cute_. Looks like he's around her age, maybe a little bit younger, tall and long-legged, with just about the prettiest eyes she's ever seen on a guy.

So, she doesn't have a monopoly on this trail, after all. Still…if every person she passes is that cute, really, she doesn't mind sharing.

xXx

She returns to the same trail the next day, same time, just to see—and sure enough, he runs by her again, this time just a little bit further down the trail. She even tries to smile at him, but once again he's so caught up with putting one foot in front of the other that he doesn't even seen her. His shoes are an alarming shade of red, she notes, his shirt somehow too big for him even though he's actually really tall, compared to her.

_Everyone is tall compared to you, Iris, _she hears Linda's voice in her head, ringing with laughter, and pushes it away in annoyance.

Okay, well, even not based off her standards, he's still pretty tall.

xXx

Another day, another run, and sure enough, he's there again. She coughs very loudly just as he's passing by, determined to get him to, at the very least, acknowledge her existence. It works, and he finally does, head snapping towards her in surprise. Clearly, he'd thought he'd been alone in knowing this place, too. She flashes him a smile, one of her best and brightest, and then something sort of strange happens.

He seems to lose all coordination in his legs in the split-second that he's staring at her, stumbling and very nearly tripping but catching himself just in time. She thinks he might've said something like _'hi'_or _'hello'_, but it's muted and muttered and his cheeks are colored red and then as quick as he's there he's gone, sprinting away as usual. She only smiles wider.

xXx

Same time, more or less same place the next day, she sees him again—only this time he's prepared for her, slowing his pace up a bit as he runs by to give her a shy little wave along with a wide, toothy smile that, she concludes, can only be made of sunshine. There's no other possible explanation, really.

And then the same thing the next day, and the next day, and the next day, and almost every day except Monday—which, for all she knows, he could be out there then too, but she's definitely not. A wave, a nod hello, a smile in exchange for a smile, here and there a quick _'hi'_ (from him, that is, because she isn't quite at the point yet where she can talk and run at the same time and, you know, still be able to breathe).

It becomes a part of her daily routine, _he_ becomes a part of her daily routine, this stranger and that lovely smile of his, and even though it only lasts a few seconds every time and they've never even spoken more than two words to each other before, it becomes something she looks forward to. Running doesn't seem quite so awful anymore. Well, okay, yes it does, but it makes it just a little bit more bearable. There's nothing she loves more than friendly strangers with adorable smiles–except maybe coffee.

xXx

A month-and-a-half to race day, she ticks off in her head, listening to the steady rhythm of her shoes against the earth beneath her—too loud, she knows, she's got heavy steps and she pounds her feet too much and it can't be good for her shins or her knees, but she can't help it. She gets to the bend in the trail that she's come to know so well, and feels her heart beat speed up a bit in anticipation. Sure enough, there's the tell-tale tread of sneakers in the distance—much smoother and lighter than hers—and then soon enough she's running past him again. He gives her that trademark sunny smile and she's just about to return it when her gaze dips lower, and her expression all but freezes in place because this time-_-this time he's not wearing a shirt_.

And _fuck_, she can't stop staring. He's skinny, sure, but he's a lot more toned then she'd given him credit for, because he's clearly been hiding some really nice muscles under those baggy t-shirts of his.

Like, wow, is that a six pack? That's definitely a six pack, and–_oh_! Those adorable little moles and freckles of his extend further than just his neck and his face, he's got them scattered all over his chest and his shoulders too, and she's just getting caught up in watching the sweat glistening on his bare skin and sliding down those abs of his when–_crack_.

Her foot falls on a rather large stick and snaps it straight in two, which is probably just about the luckiest thing that could possibly have happened for her because it forces her gaze forward, away from smiley-skinny-ab-guy, just in time to see the low-hanging tree branch headed _straight for her face_. She lets out a little yelp of surprise and ducks underneath it just in a nick of time, very narrowly avoiding running straight into it. Her heart thuds in her chest, her skin suddenly flushed and cold at the near-disaster as the adrenaline floods through her veins.

On top of all that, she can feel cheeks burning in mortification, and she hazards a glance over her shoulder to see if runner boy has noticed her unfortunate blunder. With a pang of dread her eyes meet his, and she realizes too late that he's looking right back at her, having slowed down considerably. Once he realizes she's caught him looking, he picks up his pace again and snaps his attention back facing-front, but not before she catches the self-satisfied little smirk on his face.

_Oh_, _alright then_, she thinks, narrowing her eyes and turning back around in favor of glaring at his retreating figure, lest she run into an actual tree and make an even bigger fool of herself. _So that's how you wanna play it, Mr. Runner Boy. Well, two can play at that game. _

xXx

The next day, same time as usual, she gets ready for her run just as she normally would, only this time she makes sure she wears the best sports bra she owns–a simple green one that does _wonders_ for her chest–and a pair of her shortest short black spandex. And to top it all off, even though it's not quite as hot as it was the day before, she deliberately doesn't wear a shirt. She pulls her hair up into a ponytail and observes herself in the mirror, twisting this way and that, before finally nodding in satisfaction at her reflection.

"Geez, Iris, it's a run, not a beauty pageant. What, are you trying to impress someone?" Linda teases from her perch on her bed, peering at Iris around the side of her laptop.

Iris shrugs and flips her ponytail over her shoulder, refusing to let it deter her. She looks hot, and she knows it, and so does Linda. She's counting on the fact that a certain someone else will too. "Maybe, maybe not. I gotta go, though—some of us actually_ exercise_, you know."

And then she's out the door before Linda can form a properly offended response, which serves her right, considering she should be out there running with her in the first place. Iris laces up her shoes and stretches a bit in the hallway, bouncing on the balls of her feet before making her way outside and taking off, giddy with anticipation.

_Game on, Oh-Shirtless-One. Game on._

xXx

As soon as she sees him, she gives him her very best smile, dimples and all. He smiles tentatively back, looking a little taken aback by her enthusiasm. She purposefully adjusts her sports bra so that he'll be tempted to look, and sure enough—_jackpot_. Her chest swells with satisfaction as his gaze falls—well, precisely there. His eyes widen and then, with the air of someone trying hard to be subtle but failing abysmally, his eyes sweep the rest of her body, his adam's apple bobbing in that long neck of his as he swallows, taking it all in. Her smile turns into a smirk that's downright wicked. _Go big or go home, _she thinks_,_ and just as he tears his gaze away from her body and back up to her face, she winks at him. It's not her fault really, what happens next–except, okay, it totally is. But how was she supposed to know he was that easily flustered?

He stumbles, trips, and actually falls. Flat on his face. _Hard. _She claps a hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter–_not funny, Iris,_ she scolds herself, _you could've caused serious injury to this poor boy_–and stops, preparing to turn around and come to his aid. Except as soon as she starts towards him, he lifts his head off the ground, picks a twig out of his hair, and wipes a smudge of dirt off his red-tinged cheek (which only, unfortunately, only makes it worse, because his hands are also covered from dirt from breaking his fall). He gives her a single, horrified look, and then before she can even take another step he's on his feet and bolting away, so fast she wonders if he's somehow miraculously acquired super-speed.

_Check mate_, she thinks, and can't fight the triumphant grin that spreads across her face as she watches him disappear further down the path–going, going, gone. Humming to herself, feeling sort of like an asshole but too proud to care, she turns around and resumes her own run, this time with a definite spring in her step. She idly hopes that he didn't hurt himself too bad with that fall–but really, she can't find it in her to feel too bad about it. After all, he did bring it on himself.

xXx

A cold front makes its way to Central City, in the middle of fall. Iris throws on a light fleece jacket and borrows a pair of running tights from Laurel (who she can always count on to lend her workout gear when she needs it because that girl's, like, obsessed with fitness), and doesn't think much of it. Really, it's almost a relief, a nice break from all the hot weather, the lingering vestiges of a scorching summer.

Halfway into her run, however, just as she's gotten on her favorite trail, she realizes something is wrong. Her breathing is off, and it's not like this is the longest run she's done yet or the fastest she's gone but her chest is burning so much it hurts to breathe and—yeah. It _really_ hurts to breathe. She pushes herself a little bit further, reluctant to stop (she's been doing so _well_—for her, at least), which is sort of,_ really_, a colossal mistake. Because now it doesn't just hurt to breathe, now she_ can't_ breathe, and she has no choice but to pause her run.

_I'm dying_, Iris thinks, stopping to bend over, gripping her knees and sucking in shallow, painful breaths. _This is what dying feels like_.

She stands there like that, right smack dab in the middle of the trail, for a solid minute that drags on like an hour, breathing as though she's sucking air in through a straw, lungs burning and head reeling from the lack of oxygen.

And then, probably because it's exactly what she doesn't want to hear right now, it's precisely what she's dreading but knows is coming anyway, she hears it–the crunching of leaves beneath his feet, the quick strides, the subtle footfalls. She notices a distinct change in his stride as the noise gets closer, one she recognizes as him slowing down, which can only be because he's rounding the corner and seeing–_oh God_. Cute runner boy is going to see her doubled over and wheezing like a dying whale

A beep–the sound of him stopping his watch, she thinks–and heavy breathing as he works to catch his own breath, and then those oh-so-recognizable red shoes come into focus. Which is the first thing she sees, because her gaze is still fixed on the ground before her, her head bent down and her palms digging hard into her knees. She squeezes her eyes shut in mortification and draws in another painful breath, too embarrassed to look up because he's stopped right in front of her _oh God oh God oh God_–

"Hey, are you okay?"

"Do I–look–okay–to you?" she wheezes, the words short and clipped as she struggles to drag air into her lungs.

The wounded-puppy look that graces his face is enough to make her feel guilty for snapping at him, although _honestly_. What kind of question was that?

"Sorry—that was—rude. I just—can't—_breathe_."

His expression softens, and he puts a comforting hand on her back, still bent over. "You look like you're having an asthma attack, why don't you sit down? And put your head between your knees, try to take deep breaths–in through your nose, out through your mouth. I know that seems kind of impossible right now, but you're probably panicking a little bit too, and once you calm down it'll get easier, I promise."

She follows his instructions, plopping down on the ground and mentally apologizing to Laurel for the dirt she's getting on her pants, fully expecting for that to be that and for him to be on his merry way. Except to her surprise, he sits down next to her, keeping that steady hand on her back, only now he's running his thumb back and forth across it to calm her down. And it really _is _calming.

Slowly, keeping her head bent down between her knees, her shallow, gasping breaths start to even out a bit, and she finds that breathing gradually becomes feasible again. She can actually breathe in deep, and then let it all out, and once the oxygen starts flowing again and the dizziness passes, she straightens her legs out and finally lifts her head, things coming back into focus.

Suddenly, she's very aware of the hand still on her back, the warmth she can feel through her thin jacket, and her breath speeds up for an entirely different reason. He must realize it, too, because he pulls his hand away lightning-quick, scoots a little bit further away from her to put space between them, and gives her a sheepish smile, silently apologizing. She wants to tell him not to be sorry, that it's okay, that him sitting there really did help and that she misses the comfortable pressure of his hand on her back, but instead, she blurts: "I don't have asthma."

He bites his lip, thinking, and then his eyes light up like he's found the answer. "It's probably the weather—have you ever run in the cold before? Especially when the weather changes so abruptly like this, the cold air is really dry, and since dry air is harder to breathe in, it can induce asthma-like symptoms like wheezing and coughing if you're breathing a lot of air in though your mouth. Next time, try breathing through your nose—it filters out air impurities, and also warms cool air to body temperature so that it creates less shock for the lungs, thus decreasing those asthma-like symptoms you're experiencing, and—wow, I'm sorry. I'm totally nerding out on you, aren't I?"

"A little," Iris laughs, shaking her head in amusement, trying to make sense of what he'd been saying. "But thanks. That's…good to know, I guess."

She starts to push herself off the ground, and the guy is on his feet in a flash, extending a hand towards her to help her stand. She accepts it gratefully, and he helps her stand on shaky legs, catching her as she wobbles a bit, obviously still recovering. He looks at her with concern, and then that light goes off in his eyes again, one that she's sure means he must have an idea.

"Where do you live? Sorry, that—I didn't mean to sound creepy. That probably sounded creepy, didn't it? I was just asking because you still don't look so good—I mean, you look great, that's not what I—"

"I go to Central City University. I live in a dorm on campus," she cuts him off, fighting back a smile and sparing him the embarrassment, even though she's really, really tempted to let him go on. _Please, do tell me more about how great I look._

His smile takes her off guard, mostly because this time she's not expecting it, and she wonders what brought it on. Because she's pretty sure that's pure excitement she's seeing in his eyes.

"No way–you go to CCU too?"

Her stomach does a little flip-flop, and she feels a thrill of excitement of her own as that registers—_she goes to the same school as Cute Runner Boy_? But how didn't she know…? She squints at him, trying to discern if she's ever seen him around before and maybe just not realized it, because their student body isn't _that_ big and it's strange that they've never run into each other outside of, well, running into each other.

"Yeah, I do. How come I've never seen you around before?"

"I don't know…? Huh…what do you study?"

"I'm an English major, with a concentration in journalism. You?"

"Well, that's why, I guess. I'm a Chemistry and Physics double-major–all our classes have probably all been in entirely different buildings. Still, you would think…never mind. What I was going to say before is that the campus is pretty far from here. You probably shouldn't go back by yourself, in case something like this happens again." He glances behind him, looking pensive, and then back to her, and she has the distinct feeling that she's missing something. "Listen—I have an apartment off campus–it isn't far from here. I could run back there with you, since you should really take a break, get some water before you even think about exerting yourself again. This is towards the end of my run, anyway, so I don't mind."

She gives him a horrified look, and it takes him a second to realize his mistake. "I'm sorry, I–oh! I meant walk. We can _walk_ back there, not run. No more running. I'll even carry you, if you don't think you can manage."

If it were anyone else, she would think they were mocking her, but he actually seems…_genuine_ about the offer. The walking sounds better, much better, but she's going to hang onto whatever shreds of dignity she has left, _thankyouverymuch_. Which means not accepting piggy-back rides from strangers she meets in the woods. Which, now that she thinks about, sounds really weird, and—yeah. This should be a lot creepier than it is, actually, and yet…she feels at ease around him. He's about as threatening as a teddy bear, anyway, and–wait. Her eyes widen in disbelief as another thing he's said hits her.

"Wait, what do you mean, this was towards the end of your run?"

"That…this is towards the end of my run…?"

"But–but you don't even look tired! You_ never_ look tired," she sputters indignantly, feeling a sudden stab of jealousy. She's always assumed that she was catching him at the beginning, that that was the reason he barely seemed to break a sweat, but _this_…and all while she's over here wheezing and probably looks a goddamn sweaty mess, too, oh man, _no fucking way_. "Please tell me your runs are short, you know–like, two miles…?"

"Ah, no, actually," he says, rubbing the back of his neck and shuffling his feet a bit. "I'm training for a marathon, so my runs are anywhere between five to twenty-five miles. You know, five being a short day, anything over twenty being long. Sometimes more, if I'm feeling good, but since this trail is so close to my apartment there's this loop I do at the end of all my runs that takes me right through it."

"_Twenty-five_, are you–dude, are you shitting me?"

"Uh–I–uh–"

"Who's making you do it? My friend Linda bullied me into running this charity 5K for her sorority, which is why I've been out here and all, but God–whoever this person is you're subjected yourself to that for, they must be really special."

"I'm not–no one is–I'm just doing it for fun, actually. I like running."

"For _fun_? You…like…wow. Wooow."

"Um. I'm…sorry?" he looks so adorably confused, so nervous that he's actually offended her, that she can't hold a grudge against him for long. After all, it's not a bad thing, necessarily, it's just…weird. But, hey, she can handle weird.

"I mean, don't apologize to me. If anything, it's yourself you should be apologizing to." She tries to take a step forward to pat him on the shoulder—whether out of pity that this is what he does for fun or awe that he's apparently that motivated, she can't really decide—and feels her legs shake underneath her. She tries to swallow, and finds that her throat is incredibly dry, like someone's stuffed a whole bunch of cotton balls into her mouth that she can't spit out.

"Eugh—you know what, I think I'm going to take you up on that offer, if you can drive me back to campus once we get to your place. I need a glass of water, like, ASAP."

"Sure thing," he smiles brightly at her, and inclines his head to the direction where he'd been running towards before. "Just follow me, it's not far—there's a short cut we can take."

xXx

As it turns out, unfortunately, the so-called short-cut he's talking about includes one very large, very intimidating-looking hill.

"You didn't say anything about a hill," she groans, freezing in place just as he's about to make the trek up it. "I don't think I have the energy for that right now."

"I mean, my offer still stands—I could carry you, if you want."

She's about to refuse, but then she takes another look at the sharp incline looming straight ahead, and her resolve crumbles. She nods, motions for him to turn around, and sucking up her pride, she prepares to clamber onto his back. Just as she's got her hand on his shoulder, ready to jump on and pull herself up, she freezes, throwing caution into the wind.

"You know, I should have asked this earlier—precaution and all—but you're not, like, a serial killer or something, are you? You could just have a deceptively innocent face."

"No," he lets out a startled laugh, one that she can feel rumbling against the hand she's got resting on his shoulder. "Although if I were, I doubt I'd actually tell you that."

"True," she shrugs, thinks _'ah, fuck it'_, and hops onto his back, hooking her arms around his neck as he grabs underneath her legs to hold her steady.

Which is how she totally does end up accepting a piggy-back ride, of sorts, in the woods, from a total stranger. A stranger whose name is Barry, she finds out while they're talking and he's carrying her up the hill, with her cheek pressed up against his back and a smile on her lips. He asks her if maybe she'd be up for meeting for coffee someday soon, in the University cafe, and she says yes without even having to think twice.

Okay, so maybe not a total stranger, after all.


	46. Stay With Me

_**Prompt: "are you still taking those Hurt/comfort prompts for WestAllen? PLEASEEE SAY YESSS I NEED A FIC WHERE IRIS SEES BARRY GET REALLY HURT AND STUFF"**_

**xXx**

_**note: **__okay so i'm the worst and i totally didn't read this prompt right so this isn't Iris actually seeing Barry get hurt in action more just the aftermath ;)_

_**uh, also: **__warning for blood and injury and all that fun stuff, if that's not your cup of tea~_

_**ALSO also: **__disclaimer that I was sort of too lazy too look up actual plausible/realistic injuries and how to treat them, so if this seems wildly medically inaccurate, it's probably because it is._

**xXx**

_Knock._ Pause. _Knock. _Pause._ Knock knock knock._

Iris rolled her eyes, setting her cup behind her on the counter she'd been leaning against and excusing herself from the conversation she'd been having with Linda and Caitlin: weighing the pros and cons of having a place of her own. Not that it made any difference, of course, because she already did, and it was the reason that they, and all these people, were in her new home right now in the first place.

_Housewarming party._ It had been Linda's suggestion, and she'd decided to go with it, mostly because her friend had offered to help throw it and had looked so excited about it (honestly, Linda loved any excuse for a celebration), and considering she'd spent a solid three months crashing on her couch she figured she sort of owed her that much.

A solid three months, of course, that had led her to make the decision that she needed a place of her own to begin with. After Eddie's death, she couldn't go back to the apartment they'd shared–it felt too empty, too big, too wrong, to be there without him, and she knew that if she stayed she'd never be able to move on.

And so she'd moved back into her dad's house, and Barry had moved back into to his old apartment, insisting that he didn't want to make her feel uncomfortable now that she knew what she knew and everything was still out in the open between them, even though she'd tried to assure him that it was fine, that he didn't have to leave. She just barely held back from telling him that there was a selfish little part of her that didn't want him to leave, that wanted him to stay, to keep him close, because she didn't want to lose anyone else she cared about, but she knew the space was just as much for him as it was for her.

And then she'd remembered Eddie, that faraway look in his eyes, the stillness of his chest, the blood–no matter how many times she washed her hands after that night she could still feel it clinging to her skin–and the guilt had threatened to swallow her whole. Guilt at wanting to be with Barry when Eddie was dead, even though she still missed Eddie, and thought about him at the most inconvenient times. Guilt at being scared of not waiting long enough to move on and then ending up waiting too long, and guilt at wanting a fresh start. Guilt that, despite everything, despite the fact that he'd moved on and she'd moved on too fast and then not fast enough, she was still very much in love with her best friend.

"That'll be Mr. Punctual," she sighed, pushing those thoughts away. This was supposed to be a fun night. _Her _night, and a staple that she was okay, that she was moving on–however true that actually was. "Be right back, guys."

She shook her head as she made her way to the door, exasperated because there was only one person who could possibly be showing up this late, but smiling fondly for much the same reason. And it wasn't just that, either–it was the way he knocked, too, that let her know who to expect on her doorstep.

_I-ris. O-pen up._ Like they were fifteen again and she was taking too long in the shower.

"About time," she huffed, pulling the door open, and sure enough, it was him. "Caitlin and Cisco are already here. I mean, everyone's already here. What–" she'd been about to ask what had taken him so long–after all, he'd promised that he'd take off tonight from his usual Flash business tonight just to make this–but then she looked at him for the first time, really looked at him, and felt her stomach drop.

"Oh my God, Barry, what happened?"

"Not–not here. Explain–later," he managed to get out, shooting out a hand to grab the wall to steady himself only to pull it back with a cry of pain that sent shivers down Iris's spine. She hazarded a glance at his shaking legs, the bent angles of his knees making her stomach turn. How he was even standing, putting any pressure on them when he clearly shouldn't be, was beyond her. His jeans were ripped and torn and seeping red in patches, and oh God, what was that–was that _bone_? _No, no, no, no, no–_

"Iris…please," his voice was barely a whisper, laced with more pain then she'd ever heard in it before, and the sound of it forced her to get a hold of herself.

Her eyes snapped back up to meet his, her heart breaking at the utter torment in his expression, tight and drawn with discomfort. He needed her right now–she had to pull herself together, for his sake. She glanced behind her, and with a mental sigh of relief noted that her guests hadn't noticed anything, milling about same as before, apparently oblivious to the fact that a very injured Barry Allen was bleeding out on her doorstep.

"Okay, okay–do you…do you think you can make it just a little bit further? I can help you walk, but…"

He squeezed his eyes shut with a grimace, but nodded in understanding. He was nearly a foot taller than her–she wouldn't be able to support all his weight on her own.

"Alright, just–my room is close to the door. Right around the corner, really, we can go there, and I'll do my best to shield you from view, and I'll get Caitlin to check you out and–and it'll be okay. It's gonna be okay." Over and over again she repeated those words, as though that might make it true, just as much to convince herself as it was to reassure him. She moved to his side, carefully maneuvering his arm over her shoulder and stumbling a bit before catching herself, supporting the bulk of his weight.

"I'm sorry, I–I'm sorry," he bit out, a barely contained scream behind every word.

"Don't apologize," she huffed, gathering her bearings, hating the way her voice shook. She tried her best not to cry as she took in the gash in his side, the warmth seeping into her shirt as he pressed against her, wondering with steadily increasing panic just how much blood he was losing.

She tore her eyes away from the wound, taking in a shaky breath, needing to look somewhere, anywhere else. It wasn't that she was squeamish, really—it was more of_ who _it was that made it so hard to stomach. And, yeah, okay–maybe she was a little squeamish after all, because those wounds looked bad and his skin looked like it was hanging off in places where it seemed like it had nearly been shredded right off, and she was trying really, really hard not to throw up. Finally, her gaze landed on Linda, who had ventured out of the kitchen and was striding towards her, no doubt having wondered why she hadn't come back to rejoin their conversation.

"Iris, is everything okay?" Linda asked, eyebrows knitting together in concern as she made her way over to them. Her eyes widened as they fell upon Barry, taking in his battered appearance. "Jesus, what_ happened_—"

"Linda, I need you to distract these people," Iris gave her a pleading look, thanking God, not for the first time, that she'd been in on the secret–all of the Flash and meta-human business–ever since Wally had come into the picture. Less questions, less excuses, especially at a time like this. "Actually, I need you to get them all out of here entirely. Can you do that?"

Linda, bless her soul, didn't miss a beat. She just nodded, barely batting an eyelash, to show she understood.

"Of course. I'll get Cisco, see if he can help. He might be able to cause a diversion and all, with–you know."

"Get me Caitlin, too," Iris panted, half dragging Barry along with her, trying to angle her body to hide as much of his as she could with all 5′ 4″ of her. She wondered briefly if he'd passed out, and half-hoped, for his sake, that he had. "Tell her I'm bringing Barry to that bedroom I showed you guys earlier. Quickly, please."

Linda nodded again and then she was off, making a beeline straight for the kitchen, and Iris shuffled towards her room as fast as she could manage, steadfastly ignoring the couple of people who'd spotted her–two of her old colleagues from Jitters–that were calling her name. And then, finally, miraculously, she was in the bedroom, depositing Barry's limp form on the bed as gently as possible, disentangling his arm from around her and careful not to jar his injuries.

With shaking legs she strode over to the door, just preparing to shut it when she saw, with a flood of relief, Caitlin approaching. She had a steely, determined look in her eye that Iris had come to recognize as her 'doctor-mode', as Cisco had jokingly referred to it one day. There was nothing remotely funny about it right now.

She spared Iris a terse nod before brushing swiftly past her into the room, her steps faltering for a moment, an unintentional lapse in her rigid composure, as she took in the sorry state Barry was in.

"Do you know what happened?" she asked, and although her voice was deceptively steady and clipped,_ calm _even, Iris knew her well enough by now to detect the faint tremble hidden within it. Barry was her friend too, after all, not just any patient.

"No," Iris shook her head, pulling the door shut behind her and walking on shaky legs over to Caitlin, who was rooting determinedly through a rather large purse she'd brought in with her, her expression unreadable. "How are things out there? Did you talk to Linda? Cisco?"

"Linda just told me to meet you in here, said it was urgent, that Barry was pretty badly hurt. I think she might've left to find Wally after that, but Cisco was with me too, and last I checked, he'd managed to convince everyone that there'd been a small earthquake or something—made the whole kitchen shake. They're all clearing out, anyway."

"Good, that's—wait, you keep medical supplies in there?" Iris blurted as she caught a glimpse of the contents of the kit Caitlin had just popped open, one that she'd pulled out of her purse.

"Yes, and with good reason, considering situations like these. I really should be doing this at S.T.A.R. Labs, there's equipment I need there and he really should be in a medical setting for this but…to be honest, he's not in good shape," _no fucking shit_, Iris thought to herself, with a flash of anger at Caitlin that she immediately felt guilty about, "and the drive to the lab from here isn't exactly quick—I think it's best if I get him stabilized here first, and then we can take him."

Her throat felt dry, watching Caitlin fish out the items she needed. She couldn't even find her voice to form a proper response, or ask the only question that really mattered, the one she was desperate to know but terrified to bring up. Luckily, Caitlin answered it for her anyway, sparing her a quick glance as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves.

"He'll be okay, Iris," she assured her, although the look on her face, the tight line of her mouth, lips pursed and pulled down at the corners, the edge of unease in her eyes, were far from reassuring. "I just need to work quickly. Especially before things start healing the wrong way, or this is could get a whole lot uglier."

Iris nodded numbly, watching as though stuck in some awful nightmare as Caitlin flitted around Barry, poking and prodding and assessing. Dread curdled in her stomach as she knelt by Barry's side and realized with a start that he was _looking right at her,_ staring at her through eyes clouded with pain. She had thought, _she had hoped_, that he had passed out, but here he was, more or less alert, and very much awake. He was going to feel _every single thing_ Caitlin did, and she knew it, and she could tell from the way he was looking at her that he knew it, too. His eyes were wide and pleading, following her every move as she took his good hand–the other a mangled, bloody mess—in hers, silently intertwining their fingers to show she wasn't going anywhere.

And all the while, Barry lay tense, wincing and flinching as Caitlin examined the worst of his injuries, occasionally letting out a whimper, a shudder, a cry, a sharp intake of breath that made Iris's heart ache. He kept his eyes fixed on her or otherwise squeezed shut, and she noted with a sinking sensation the silent tears that leaked from them. She _hated_ seeing Barry cry. She hated seeing him in pain. More than anything, she hated not being able to do anything to stop it, just sitting here, completely useless, and watching idly while he went through agony. God, _she hated_ _this_.

"Isn't—isn't there anything you can give him for the pain? You have to have something in his purse, Caitlin,_ please_," she pleaded, desperate, as she watched Barry bite down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, no doubt holding back another scream. _Please, please, please_, she thought over and over again, squeezing Barry's hand a little tighter, even though she already knew the answer.

"Iris, nothing works on him. His metabolism will burn right through it, you know that."

She did, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.

"Oh, fuck," came a voice from behind her, and she whipped around to find Cisco standing there, wide-eyed and worried. She hadn't even realized that he'd come into the room, hadn't even registered the sound of the door being opened and shut. Caitlin beckoned him closer and to hand him something, listing off a lot of medical jargon in the process that Iris didn't really recognize. It didn't matter, really—she knew enough to gather that it wasn't anything good.

_Focus_, she told herself. _Pull yourself together—you need to be strong. Barry needs you_. Except no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't shake the creeping feeling of hopelessness as she rubbed calming circles into Barry's hand to ease its trembling, the motion mechanical and forced. Couldn't quite help the sensation that this was all far too close and too real and too loud—a cry of pain, a tear stealing its way down Barry's cheek, an order from Caitlin, a twitch in the fingers wrapped around hers, a stain of red, scissors cutting away fabric revealing the bloody mess of skin beneath it, bone poking through flesh a scream, a scream, a scream. Flashes of images burning at the back of her mind, sounds thundering against her eardrums no matter how loud or how quiet.

And yet, somehow, at the same time, she felt as though she was watching everything unfold before her from miles away, like half of her mind was rejecting that this was happening at all, like if maybe she closed her eyes and hoped hard enough she would open them and none of this would be real—

"Hey, Iris." Cisco rested a reassuring hand on her shoulder, as the scene seemed to waver and wobble before her. She drew in a shaky breath, suddenly aware of the wetness on her cheeks, forcing herself back to the present. She hadn't even realized she'd been crying, didn't know when she'd started. "I know it looks bad, but Caitlin knows what she's doing. He'll be okay. Besides, he's had worse."

"He's had _worse_?" Iris's voice cracked, shrill with disbelief. As if it didn't hurt enough to see him in this much pain, this apparently wasn't even the worst of it. God, they needed to have a talk about self-preservation, if he—_when_ he was all better. _When, Iris_, she berated herself, clinging to Caitlin and Cisco's reassurances. _You heard them, he's going to be fine, even if it looks—no, don't think about that. Postive thoughts. P-o-s-i-t-i-v-e. _Caitlin looked up from what she was doing to shoot Cisco a glare, and his eyes widened as he realized his mistake.

"Oh shit—that was really not helpful, not helpful at all, sorry—what I meant was that he's _recovered _from worse. I mean, there was this one time, back when—never mind, actually. Also not helpful. But we've seen it, so, you know—he'll definitely recover from this. Promise."

"Okay," she sucked in a deep breath, willing her fingers to stop trembling as she brushed them gently across Barry's forehead with her free hand, pushing away the hair clinging to his skin from the sweat and exertion of simply being _conscious_. With another steadying breath she steeled herself, swallowing past the lump in her throat. She needed to do _something._ "Okay. I–I believe you. Now, what can I do to help?"

Caitlin didn't let the surprise show on her face at the resolve in Iris's voice, shaky but determined, she just continued to unravel a bandage and wrap it around a gash in Barry's thigh, muttering something about needing stitches before pausing for a beat to address her.

"Just monitor his breathing for now, okay? Make sure he is, you know—"

"Breathing?"

"Well, yes."

She nodded, methodically running her fingers through Barry's hair and here and there muttering empty reassurances, all the while watching the labored rise and fall of his chest, her heart in her throat with the fear that at any moment, it would stop, and waiting, waiting, waiting…

"Iris? Iris, did you hear me?"

She blinked, tearing her gaze away from Barry's chest–_still breathing, he's still breathing, his heart is still beating, he's fine, _she told herself, half-worried that the second she looked away, he wouldn't be anymore–and the rest of the world came crashing back into focus.

"What?"

"I need to set the bone in his leg before it starts to heal. I'll probably have to do the same with his wrist, too. The break in the radius in his right arm is a simple fracture, so that should be fine, but—I need you and Cisco to hold him down while I do this. He's likely going to move involuntarily, and the more he moves the worse he's going to make it."

"I—okay. Okay, got it, just, where should—?"

"Hold his shoulder down," Caitlin clarified, "And Cisco, you get the other side."

"Got it."

Iris squeezed her eyes shut as she held down Barry's right shoulder, Cisco at his left, and counted down in her head. _One, two_–she peeked an eye open, and instantly regretted it, holding back a gag as she saw the mess of Barry's leg, the bone clearly visible through a gash in his skin where it had poked its way through and–_SNAP._

It took everything in her not to gag at the sound, as Barry jolted, his back arching and his eyes flying open in shock and pain, a scream tearing its way past his lips. His back hit the bed hard before Iris could react, before she could ease him back down, and the pressure against his injured body wrenched another cry of pain from him, this one cut off abruptly as he rolled, throwing up blood and bile over the side of the bed.

"Shhh…shh, Barry, it's okay," she soothed, rubbing circles around his back as he coughed, and spluttered, and heaved again–this time coming up empty. She wondered idly when the last time he ate was. "It's okay," she repeated automatically as she helped him lay back down, wiping the tears off his cheeks with her thumb, even though it didn't feel okay at all, because Barry was hurting, and hurting, and hurting, and _nothing was okay about that_.

"It's okay," another snap as Caitlin set another bone, "It's okay," a cry as she tended to his mangled fingers, "It's okay," as she held a bloody, loose flap of skin down on his side and he groaned, trying to twist away from her grip, "It's okay," when he started to thrash and panic and cry so much that Cisco had to hold him down, "_You're okay._"

All the while, she kept her hand in his, even when Caitlin set the bones in his other wrist and his grip was bruising, even when she disinfected and stitched up the wound in his side and he squeezed it so tight she was sure her own fingers would snap under the pressure.

It was a grueling process, one that dragged on, and on, and on–although how much time actually passed, she couldn't be sure. All she knew was that she needed Barry to be okay, that she couldn't lose him, that she wanted this to be over, and that finally, thankfully, somewhere down the line, Barry had passed out from exhaustion. And yet, even unconscious, his face still looked contorted with pain.

After what felt like a lifetime–a lifetime Iris never, ever wanted to repeat–Caitlin took a step back, her voice relieved and weary.

"Okay. Okay, I think it's best to let him rest a bit, for now. I don't want to wake him when he finally fell asleep, not after–you know. He's stable, I took care of all the pressing stuff, anyway. There's obviously a lot I still need to check out, but we can wait till he wakes up to take him to S.T.A.R. Labs, since I'll need my equipment there. I'm done with the worst of it, but…it's still not going to be pretty. Just…let him sleep, for now."

Heaving a sigh, Caitlin wiped her sweaty forehead with the back of her hand, leaving a little smear of blood in its wake. She held her hands out in front of her, her frown turning into a grimace as she examined them and glanced down at her similarly blood-stained clothes.

"Iris, I hope it's not asking too much, but could I use your shower to wash up?"

"Of course, yeah. Anything you need. You can borrow some of my clothes when you're done, too–just leave yours outside the bathroom, and I'll throw them in the wash for you in the meantime."

"Thank you." Caitlin gave her a wan smile, before turning her attention back to Barry, wincing at the state of his clothing, not only soaked with blood but ripped and torn in the places where she had cut the fabric away to get to the injuries underneath. "Actually, do you have anything he could wear too? Something to give him to change into when he wakes up. I just–I think we should just throw these clothes out, honestly. I mean, obviously he won't fit into your clothes, but maybe you have something…?" Caitlin asked doubtfully.

"Yeah, actually. I have some of his old sweats and stuff here," Iris answered without thinking, earning her an understanding, if a little curious, smile from Caitlin.

"Oh, okay. Well–good. That's good. I mean–it's none of my business."

Iris frowned, about to ask what it was, exactly, that wasn't her business, when Cisco gave her a meaningful look, waggling his eyebrows at her behind Caitlin's back. Oh. _Oh_. Suddenly it clicked, and she spluttered, backtracking as she realized what that must have sounded like. "No, not like that! I mean, I've had these since college, I–I always used to steal Barry's clothes when I would visit him at school. I was into the whole 'too-big sweatshirt' and roomy sweatpants thing."

"Alright," Caitlin shrugged, and despite everything, Cisco had the gall to _grin_ at her. "Well, either way. Like I said, not my business."

"It's _not_–whatever. Shower?" she reminded Caitlin, suddenly desperate to be left alone.

Caitlin nodded and retreated into the adjacent bathroom, and Cisco, seeming to get the hint, excused himself from the room as well, saying that he would call Joe and let him know to meet them at STAR Labs. Iris nodded at him in vague acknowledgment, only moving, albeit reluctantly, from Barry's side once he had left the room.

She moved on shaky legs towards her drawer, absentmindedly picking out clothes for Caitlin and for herself—after all, she probably looked a frightening mess too—and then lingering on the clothes she'd found for Barry. Just a plain looking sweatshirt with the logo of Central City's College for the Sciences on the front, a pair of sweatpants with much the same on the pant leg, and a t-shirt he'd won at a science fair.

He'd only had the chance, or so he claimed, to wear them once or twice before she'd borrowed (stolen, he insisted) them one weekend when she'd visited him at school. Still, there was something distinctly him about them, which if she was being honest was probably part of the reason she'd liked them so much in the first place.

Hugging them close, she scooped up the clothes for Caitlin and laid them outside the bathroom door, too tired and too drained, hands still trembling and legs unsteady, to change her own clothes just yet. She made her way back to the bed where Barry lay, thankfully asleep, and yet…his expression was far from peaceful, his mouth still curled into a grimace, and she wondered just how vividly he could feel the pain in his sleep. She set the clothes down at the edge of the bed and moved to sit next to him, careful not to wake him.

With gentle fingers, she stroked his cheek, let her hand linger over his lips so that she could feel the gentle puffs of air to remind herself that he was breathing. Distantly, she registered the shower being turned on, the sound of running water. She had just resumed her steady motion of carding her fingers through his hair when he gave a start, and her hand stilled in its place as he woke up with a groan.

"Hey, Bear. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit," he croaked, voice hoarse from screaming, or crying, or most likely both.

She pushed his hair back and offered up a watery smile. "Yeah, I figured."

He looked around, frowning, at the chaos that her room had become–a poor excuse for a make-shift emergency room. His forehead creased in concern as he took in the state of the sheets he was laying on, the trail of blood from the door that Iris had dragged him through.

"I bled all over your new carpet. And your bed," he mumbled, still half-asleep, dazed with exhaustion and disoriented from the pain. "I'm sorry."

She let out a little huff of disbelief. He'd just woken up from being in a world of pain, and he was worried about the state of her carpets. There was nothing funny about the situation, and her heart was still in her throat seeing him like this, even though Caitlin had assured her he'd be fine, but it still brought a disbelieving little smile to her lips. Only Barry.

"Shh, it's okay, Bear. Don't worry about it. Carpets and sheets are replaceable–you're not, okay? So don't you ever scare me like that again."

"But I ruined your housewarming party." Even only half-coherent, he sounded miserable. Hell, he looked miserable, eyes downcast, wearing a deep frown–and not just because he still looked more or less like roadkill, all beat up and broken, dried tear-tracks on his cheeks.

"It's_ fine_, I can always have another one. I'm sure Linda would love the excuse to plan something else," she waved it off, unconcerned, before giving his uninjured hand a light squeeze. She did her best to keep her tone from sounding accusatory when she finally asked the question that had been pressing on her mind from the moment he'd arrived on her doorstep, looking like death. "Speaking of tonight–what happened? How'd you get like this? I thought you said you were taking off Flash business, so you could be here on time."

"I did…I mean, I _was_…it's just–I was on my way over here, and I saw this car swerving all over the place, and it was about to hit a car in another lane and I saw what was happening too late but I still tried to stop it and–well, I pulled the driver out of the car but I was too late to stop the collision and hitting a moving car at super speed is unsurprisingly…not a good thing. But obviously I couldn't go to the hospital, and I knew no one would be at S.T.A.R., and I was already on my way here so—" he broke off with a wince, riding another wave of pain, and his grip on Iris's fingers tightened. "Okay, oww."

"Yeah," she agreed, waiting with him for it to pass, and she let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding when he opened his eyes again. "We're going to have to have a little talk about you and self-preservation soon, but for now, you need to rest. 'Kay? Get some sleep, while you can." She didn't elaborate, didn't have the heart to tell him that Caitlin still had a lot of work left to do–not just yet. Let him relax, for now. "Don't worry about the party. All I care about is that you're okay."

A yawn, a stretch, and another grimace, and he nodded, conceding defeat. He let his eyes fall closed, following her orders. She sat in silence for a while, watching his chest rise and fall until his breathing evened out, until she was sure he'd dropped off to sleep, when she heard his voice, small and sleepy and still wrought with discomfort.

"It helped, you know."

She frowned, waving a hand in front of his face, his eyes still shut tight, and when he didn't react she realized she'd been right–he_ was _asleep. Just…talking.

"What helped?" she asked, humoring him, thinking back to all the times she used to mess with him when they were kids, all the conversations they'd had with his eyes closed that he hadn't remembered in the morning.

"Your voice…wi' the pain…" he sighed sleepily, "…hearin' your voice…that helped…"

She smiled sadly, and wasn't surprised to feel herself getting choked up again. "Well, I–I'm glad I could help."

"Iris…_Iris_…"

"I'm right here, Barry."

"Mhmm…yeah…'course…" and then, so quiet she almost missed it, "…love you…"

She froze, the words hitting her like a ton of bricks, and all the while he dozed on. It had been a while since he'd said it–after all, he'd just gotten out of a relationship, although she'd known that it had still stood just as true for him as it had for her.

"_It's not that he didn't love Patty," Caitlin had said to her one night as they'd sipped wine together on her couch, contemplating life. "I think he did. It's just that…he loved Patty like–well, kind of like how you loved Eddie. You know?" Caitlin bit her lip when Iris didn't respond right away, looking sheepish. "Was that insensitive? That was insensitive, wasn't it? I'm sorry, I didn't mean–"_

"_No, no I…I get it."_

Because, yeah, she felt guilty acknowledging it, but she knew. Of course she did.

"Love you, too," she whispered, resolving to say it again when he woke up, when he could hear her, when they could have a long overdue talk about what it meant. It had to be her imagination, but…he almost looked like he was smiling a bit, in his sleep, as she leaned down to place a gentle kiss on his forehead.

_I do, okay? I love you, I really do. So don't you ever leave me, Barry Allen,_ she thought, blinking away the tears in her eyes. _Not you._


	47. A Million Smiles

_**Prompt: Iris + smiles (written from Barry's POV)**_

**xXx**

She's got a million different smiles, one for every emotion, every feeling, every moment. And each one is unique, and each one is so impossibly beautiful it makes your heart ache, your cheeks hurt, your eyes burn. No–it's not science, because it's so, so much more.

There's one for when she's happy, and it's like watching the sun come out from behind the clouds after it's been raining all morning, and suddenly your day is filled with so much light you don't know what to do with yourself and there's a rainbow forming somewhere on the horizon, stretching over the city like the smile that's stretching across her face, except not nearly as beautiful, and nowhere near as breathtaking, not even close.

There's one for when she's excited, and it's like being six again and running down the stairs on Christmas morning to find presents stacked under the tree, all carefully wrapped in your favorite color, as snow coats the streets outside and a fire crackles and burns away in the fireplace, and you feel warm and light and giddy from the top of your head to the tips of your toes because there's just this way her entire face seems to light up with it, and your heart is so whole it feels fit to burst.

There's one for when she's breathless, and it's like standing on top of a mountain with the wind blowing through your hair and it almost feels like you're flying, and it's like you're on top of the world as you're watching the sun rise just over the hilltops and it's so goddamn refreshing you could get lost for miles and miles in the details of it, all the dips and drops and canyons below, and somehow it's peaceful like the birds flying overhead and exhilarating like the 4,000 foot drop down over the edge all at once.

There's one for when she's sad, and it's soft and shaky and it feels like your falling, falling, falling, because you know she's trying so hard to be strong but there are tears she's fighting to hold back, too, and her eyes are wet and shiny, and all you want is to hold her close and take her pain away because seeing her sad is like something sharp and searing twisting in your gut and there's no light in her expression and she's smiling but it doesn't reach her eyes, and it's like someone's stolen the sun and hidden away the stars because the sky is dark, dark, dark and there's no moonlight either, and you'd do anything to see her happy again.

There's one for when she's holding back laughter, and it's so goddamn infectious you can't hold yours back no matter how hard you try, and it doesn't matter what she finds so funny, it doesn't even matter if she's laughing at _you _because her eyes are sparkling and even the hand over her mouth can't hide her joy because she's grinning through her fingertips and there's a ringing in your ears that sounds like music and if it looks like she's glowing, well, it's probably because she is.

There's one for when she's about to kiss you, and it's small and sweet and so, so close, and her eyes slip shut as she tilts her head up to meet yours but you can't find it in you to close your own because you don't want to look away from the curl of her lips, and everything about her is a goddamn miracle, and you've spent so long watching her smile this smile but for someone else and every time she did it felt like someone clenching your heart tight in their fist but now it's for _you_ and if that isn't amazing you don't know what is, and then you're not just seeing her smile but feeling it too because her mouth is on yours and she's still smiling, smiling, smiling, and it's like the feeling you get when you're running, with the electricity crackling through your veins and your skin sparking with energy and you feel lightheaded in the best possible way, and you love her more than anything.

It's not science, it's a fucking phenomenon, and even though you deal with impossibles nearly every day it's still, always, in every different style and with every different emotion and on every separate occasion, the most incredible thing you've ever seen.


	48. Second First Kisses

_**Prompt: things you said after you kissed me**_

**xXx**

"What do you mean, even better than the first time?"

"What?" Barry blinked, tearing his eyes away from her lips, the smudge of her lipstick at the corner of her mouth. He wondered briefly if some of it had gotten on his face, and quickly came to the conclusion that it probably had and fuck if that didn't make his heart beat faster because she'd been kissing him,_ Iris had been kissing him_, and not soft and shy either, not hesitant or unsure, and just thinking about the feeling of her lips moving against his made him dizzy with delight and disbelief all over again and–oh. Right. She'd been asking him a question. What was it again? It was sort of hard to think with the taste of her in his mouth, her body pressed up against his, and–

"_Barry_," she prompted, stepping back a bit, and the pleasant fog cleared from his mind some. He instantly missed the warmth, the feeling of her wandering hands, and resisted the urge to reel her right back in. Because his eyes were still fixed on her lips, and they were moving again, which meant she was saying something, and he needed to _focus_. Needed to stop thinking about how just moments ago, those lips had been moving against _his_, about how much he wanted them to do that again. "I asked you what you meant. What you said just now. Even better than the first time?"

"Oh," he shook his head, finally catching on, the world returning to its normal speed, away from that beautifully suspended slow-motion that seemed to take hold whenever she smiled at him, or looked at him a certain way, or kissed him, apparently. _Kissed him_. That was never going to get old, no matter how many second-or-third-or-fourth-or-fifth-or-hundredth-or-thousandth kisses they had. "You know, because there's no tsunami threatening to destroy the city, and Joe is safe, and we're not about to die, or anything."

She narrowed her eyes, leveling him with a slightly concerned look that suggested she thought he might be losing his mind. A notion probably not at all helped by the fact that he was still wearing the biggest, dopiest smile in the world on his face, but he couldn't help it. She tended to have that effect on him.

"Barry," she said slowly, "we've never kissed before. This was our first. And it was great, really great but–first time. I think I'd remember if–"

"Oh," Barry cut her off, his eyes going wide as the realization hit him, as his senses returned and his thoughts became less of a jumbled mess of _Iris_ and _Iris kissed me_ and _I really fucking love Iris._"_Oooh_. No, you wouldn't, because it technically got erased. As in, it happened, but then I went back in time, and next thing I knew–well. You know how that goes. Time-travel and all. I forgot I never told you that."

"When was this?" She raised an eyebrow at him, and really, it was a measure of all the craziness and impossibility of their lives in the past year-and-a-half or so, of everything they'd been through, that the first thing she asked was _when_ and not _how_.

"A while ago. Back before–" he re-evaluated that sentence in his head, knowing this was heading towards uncomfortable territory. "–before a lot. Um, let's see, remember when–ah!" He snapped his fingers, latching on to something to jog her memory that didn't include any particularly painful reminders from the past. "Remember the whole lightning psychosis thing?"

_Except, wait_–that wasn't exactly safe territory either, he realized a moment too late, and as soon as the words left his mouth, he tensed. Just another one of the lies he'd been complicit in feeding her, back before she'd been in on his secret, back when he'd made such a mess of everything. He bit his lip and watched her nervously, but to his surprise, as the confusion in her expression cleared, instead of the anger he expected she broke out into a grin that was downright giddy. And then, wonder of wonders, she _laughed_.

"Oh my God," she brought up a hand to cover her mouth, her eyes sparkling with sudden delight. "I always wondered why you were so weird that day. That was what that was all about, wasn't it–the whole '_let's stop thinking and-_-'"

"Iris, _nooo_," he pleaded, suddenly mortified with the realization of where her train of thought was headed. He'd almost forgotten about that humiliating lapse in judgement–he'd tried _so hard_ to forget about it, _fuck_– "You _promised _mewe would never speak of that again. Come on. Let's–let's not."

"Alright," she grinned at him teasingly, clearly still holding back laughter. "But you didn't let me finish. The whole 'just start doing' part, you know," she stepped closer, getting right up in his personal space and closing the small distance between them again, standing up on her tip-toes and winding her arms around his waist. And there it was again–his brain doing that odd, short-circuiting thing it did with her, embarrassment forgotten as his thoughts got stuck, once again, on _Iris, Iris, Iris_. "This time, I'm totally game."


	49. Cherry-red

_**Prompt: Basorexia - An overwhelming desire to kiss.**_

**xXx**

Iris wears lipstick for the first time the first day of freshman year of highschool in, as she tells him, the spirit of "growing up," bold and bright and deliciously cherry-red, and Barry honestly counts it as an accomplishment that he doesn't spontaneously combust when he sees her. It's a close call, though, because he walks in on her putting it on in the bathroom that morning, smacking her lips together to spread it around evenly and eyeing herself critically in the mirror.

She catches sight of Barry walking in behind her and stares at his reflection, breaking out into a toothy grin. She whirls around to face him, that lipstick-stained smile still fixed on her face, the red so bright it pops against her dark skin and makes her teeth stand out, pearly white and without even a trace of the braces she finally got removed just a couple weeks ago.

"Don't tell my dad, but there's no way I'm wearing my retainer on the first day," she says, and he nods numbly, mostly because he's finding it really hard to think, to focus, when he can't tear his gaze away from her lips–full and bright and red. "Anyway, what do you think? Too much?"

It's not like he's never noticed that Iris has lips before. Not like he's never thought of them, in vivid detail, pressed against his own. Actually, it's rare for him _not_ to be thinking about kissing her. But now it's like he can't look away, and he's even more aware of the fact that she has them and he really, really wants to kiss her and that color is making her smile pop even more than usual which he honestly wouldn't have thought was possible because her smile is already the brightest thing there is in any given room she walks into but now she's got that extra splash of color and it's so nice. It's so, _so_ nice.

He walks up to the sink so that they're standing side-by-side and takes great effort not to let his arm brush against hers even though on a normal day, they'd be nudging and pushing each other out of the way to try and gain a monopoly over the area. With monumental effort he tears his gaze away from her lips–her red, red, red, beautiful, kissable lips–to pick up his toothbrush, channeling all his concentration into squeezing the toothpaste onto it. "No, it's–you look amazing," he says, swallowing hard, and then promptly shoves the toothbrush in his mouth before he can say anything else that he's really going to regret.

"Thanks, Barry," she beams at him, knocking her shoulder against his, and then, and _then_–she kisses his cheek._ Kisses him! _On the cheek, of course, like the strictly platonic best friend he is, the best friend she'll never see as anything more, but still. He almost chokes on his toothpaste when he looks up to their reflections in the mirror and he notices that his has a big, cherry-red mark on its face, right where her lips touched, left behind from her kiss.

"Oh, crap, I'm sorry," she laughs, picking up a washcloth from the counter and quickly running it under the water before bringing it up to his cheek, wiping away the evidence. "I totally forgot."

He mumbles something unintelligible around his toothbrush, which has been frozen and pressed against the other side of his mouth for who knows how long now, and doesn't tear his eyes away from the mirror. He watches as the mark slowly disappears, until she's scrubbed it off completely, and all he can think about is how he wishes that she hadn't, sort of wants it to have stayed there forever. And then she puts the washcloth down and pats his cheek, and she's smiling at him again, and he lets himself glance sideways at her mouth. Which is a mistake, because her lipstick's just a little smudged, and then she's smacking her lips together again to fix it and rub it back in, pouting her lips out and all, and he's so, utterly, absolutely hopeless.

"I think I'm going to try out different colors, too," she says, swiping at the corners of her mouth to get rid of any excess. "For different days, and all. Not that I'll wear all this everyday, you know, it's too much effort. But you'll have to help me decide which one looks best."

This time, he does choke on his toothpaste, because fuck. He's so fucked.

He's _so_ fucked.


	50. Distraction Techniques

_**Prompt:**__**Late night studying in a library**_

**xXx**

"Iris? Iris? Uh, Earth to Iris," Barry says, and he only manages to get her attention when he leans over and pokes her in the middle of her forehead, making her go cross-eyed. "Are you even listening to me? I thought you wanted my help studying for this thing."

"Sorry, um," she blinks, tearing her gaze away from his face—a shame, because it's such a nice face, especially when he's being all nerdy and excited about stuff like this—to look down at the textbook lying open in front of her, and then at the notebook in front of him that he's just scribbled something down on, explaining some complicated chemical equation. For her, apparently, because—right. Help. She did ask for that. _Um._ "I didn't quite catch that."

"For real?" he sighs, pushing his glasses up a bit to rub the bridge of his nose. "Come on, Iris, it's almost midnight already. Where did I lose you?"

"I'm…gonna be completely honest here, I haven't really been following anything you've been saying past the–um, what was that called, again? That thing you were explaining–oh! The whole thing about catalysts, and um…aaaand…decomposition!"

"I-_riiiis._ That was literally like the first thing I said. You have to pay _attentioooon_," Barry groans, leaning back in his chair and throwing his head back dramatically, revealing a delectable little strip of skin as he stretches, his shirt riding up just so, and– "…ris?…Iris? You stopped listening to me again, didn't you."

"What?" Iris shakes her head, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the image. Because that is _so_ not what she's here for right now, no matter how many times she's fantasized about doing things that would probably make Barry go several shades of red if she were to share them with him, right here in their quiet little corner of the library, hidden behind all these book shelves and in _their _spot. The one no one dares come near this late at night because they've more or less claimed it, by this point in the semester, and they go to a relatively small university—people just know not to come near it. Well, that, and the barricade of chairs they always put up, but, like—that's not the point.

Barry pouts and finally gives up on the glasses, taking them off and placing them on the table so that he's free to scrub tiredly at his eyes. There's a little indent on his nose from where they've dug into his skin, probably from pushing them up so many times—which, really, is so, _so _distracting, watching them slip down his nose as he buries his head in his books or gets particularly animated about explaining something, his slender fingers coming back up to put them back into place, always right as she's about to give in and just reach out and do it herself. One day, she muses, watching him scrunch up his nose up at the sudden absence, she's going to be the one to remove those glasses, all slow and teasing. Like payback for the agony he puts her through every time he wears the stupid things when they're working. Which is, like, all the time. She's half convinced he does it on purpose.

And,_ oh,_ she'll make sure she leaves them for last, take apart every other inch of him first, and then, when he's all exposed and at her mercy, she'll smirk and slip those cute little glasses right off his face, and he'll look at her with those wide, pretty doe-eyes, and she'll kiss the mark on his nose away, rub her fingers over it just to feel the slight indent in the skin there like she always, always wants to. And that's not even touching on actually kissing him, oh man, which is like—a whole different ball park. Well, okay, it's the same ball park, but there's a whole lot more to how she's imagined going about it.

Which, admittedly, she does often.

"Look, do you want my help studying or not?" Barry's voice breaks through her reverie, and she's profoundly grateful for the fact that he won't be able to tell that she's blushing. "You know I always want to help you, Iris—" and there it is again, because somehow her name finds its way to his lips in pretty much every single conversation (she hates it, which is a lie, she loves it a lot, which is also why she hates it) "—but I can't teach you anything if you're just not paying attention."

"I'm really sorry, Barry," she heaves a long-suffering sigh, hoping to win herself pity-points, and gives her best puppy-dog eyes, the ones she knows he can never resist. "I appreciate your help, I really do, but my brain is fried right now. Maybe we should take a break? You know how easily distracted I start to get when I've been studying like this for too long. And we've been here forever. Not that I'm not grateful, 'cause I am, but I think it's time for some late night. I mean, hey—if we hurry we can still get there before they stop selling those mozzarella sticks you love."

"You didn't seem distracted earlier, though." She watches a little crease form between his eyebrows as he regards her with confusion. "You were staring really intently, actually. At me. I just assumed—I thought that meant you were paying attention. And you looked focused…I think?"

"Oh, that, I, uh," she trips over her words, trying and failing to come up with an excuse, and finally settles on the truth. Really, she can only let this crush drag on for so long. Something has to give eventually, and hey, there's no time like the present. "I was focused. On you. But I was also distracted. By…your face."

"Oh," he blinks, and she holds her breath, knowing that this could only go one of two ways (well, okay, probably more than two, but there's only two that really matter), sincerely hoping she hasn't just been imagining the looks he sneaks at her over the rims of his glasses while they study, or the lingering glances whenever they're just hanging out, or the whole always-touching thing they have going on when they're in the same general vicinity—looks and touches that have made her hope, just a little more each time she catches him in the act, that maybe she isn't alone in this. She watches the smile spread across his face and instantly feels like a weight's being lifted off her chest, like she can breathe again and feel her heartbeat in her ears—because that's good, right? Smiles are good. Smiles are great.

Barry's smiles, well—they're amazing.

"Really?" he peeks at her through his lashes, a weird mix of shy and confident, like he can't really believe it but at the same time his chest is swelling with the possibility, squinting at her a little without the help from his glasses.

"Yeah," she admits, returning his grin as he takes the textbook out of her hands and snaps it shut, tossing it carelessly to the side so that he can scoot closer to her. "Yeah, you're pretty distracting. Had my mind stuck thinking of all sorts of other things while you were going on about balancing equations and redox reactions."

"See, you were paying attention!" he laughs, and she's pretty sure she's not imagining that it sounds a little breathless. "But more importantly…what other things?"

"I have a bucket list," she grins wickedly at him, doing a mental little happy dance when his eyes widen at the way she says it, wondering what sort of conclusions his mind must be whipping up. Whatever they are, they're probably not all wrong. "Let me show you."


	51. Beside You

_**Prompt: "Since we didn't get it, Iris at Barry's bedside completely broken" (in episode 2x06)**_

**xXx**

"Okay," she calls out in a bright voice, unnaturally chipper, with a smile that's so obviously forced. Because the alternative would be crying, and screaming, and throwing things like she so desperately wants to, but she can't let herself. "I wasn't sure how much cream and sugar you took in your coffee, Caitlin, I hope this is—oh my God."

The first thing she registers when she looks up from the little brown cup holder tray she's balancing in her hand is that instead of two people staring back at her as she walks into the room, there's three. Barry's eyes are open, and the neck brace is obscuring the bottom half of his face from her view, but he's awake and he's looking at her he's _awake_ and—he's crying. Cheeks pink and shining with tears and eyes red-rimmed, like he's trying hard to hold it in but he can't; an expression she's grown to know far too well for her liking. _Oh, Barry._

The coffees she'd stepped out to pick up for Cisco, Caitlin, and herself fall to the floor as her hand flies up to her mouth at the sight of him—conscious for the first time in what feels like forever. The lids pop off as they hit the floor and they spill all over her boots, but she can't bring herself to care because he's awake, Barry's awake, he's _alive. _But there's something so _wrong_ in his eyes, and she can tell without having to ask that he's hurting, and not just from broken bones or ripped skin.

She doesn't think twice, splashes through the puddle of coffee pooling at her feet as she rushes to his side, mentally berating herself because she never should have left. Things never seem to work in her favor these days; _of course_ he would have woken up without her there. Of course it had to be the second she'd stepped out to grab them all some much needed caffeine—because judging by the heavy bags underneath Cisco and Caitlin's eyes that she'd been willing to bet matched her own, they were just as tired as she felt—that he'd come back to them. To her.

She'd waited by his bedside all night and into the next day, refusing to sleep, refusing to eat, not really saying anything to anyone other than a quiet "_Thank you" _to Caitlin when she'd laid a hand on Iris's shoulder and given her a sad smile, told her in a voice rough from exhaustion that Barry's vitals had stabilized. That it'd be a while before he'd be okay, but he _would_ be okay.

She'd almost wished Caitlin hadn't had to bandage up his chest—she'd wanted to sit there and watch as his skin stitched itself back together, until those ugly claw marks marring his skin had faded away. She'd wanted to be sure. Caitlin had told her he was healing, but she'd needed to see for herself, needed to know, without a doubt, that he would recover. Instead she'd settled on watching his face, as the marks had gone from purple-and-blue to yellow to pale, as the cuts healed themselves, as the bruising around his neck had gone down.

That had been the worst part, she thinks. Those not-quite fingerprints dug deep into his throat, leaving those ugly dark bruises, a reminder of who—of _what—_had done this to him. What was still out there, and could do this again. _Finish the job_. By the time Caitlin had put the neck brace on, the marks were already faded and his skin was familiarly pale and freckled again, but every time she'd closed her eyes she still couldn't stop seeing them, couldn't stop seeing Zoom parading around his body, couldn't stop seeing him lying on the table when she'd first rushed into STAR Labs to find Caitlin bustling around his bedside to stabilize his condition and treat his wounds as he just lied there, so lifeless and bloody and broken. As still as he'd been every damn day in those agonizing nine months of his coma, and God—she'd been so terrified she was going to have to relive that, that he wasn't going to wake up again, except this time not at all.

He had, though. Even though she hadn't been there to see it happen like she should've been. And he's looking at her right now, following her every move with those big, sad eyes as she drops down to her knees by his bedside and lays her head on his chest, right over his heart, careful not to jar his injuries, feeling that reassuring buzz of his heartbeat against her ear. He touches her hair and chokes out the word "_Iris"_ in a voice that's so tired and so small and so weak her heart breaks for him, and then she can't help it, can't stop herself as she starts to cry, too.

She gives herself time to collect herself, tracing the freshly healed skin of his chest with trembling fingers, remembering how black and blue and bloody it had looked not long ago, how close she'd come to losing him. _Again_. "You're okay," she breathes, holding back another sob, "You—don't you ever scare me like that again Barry Allen. Don't you _ever—_you can't—fuck, Barry, I'm so glad you're _okay_."

She lifts her head and tries to give him a shaky smile, but it falters as she watches the way his face crumples, screwed up like he's holding something back, like he's trying hard to hold himself together, those silent tears still dripping down his chin—jaw clenched so tightly she's sure it must hurt. "Barry…? Are you—how do you feel? That's a stupid question, I know but–really. You can talk to me. Please."

"Iris, I don't think…" Caitlin starts, and swallows, sharing a miserable look with Cisco, and she's surprised to hear the way the woman's voice shakes, so different from the strictly professional doctor persona Iris had grown used to her occupying as she'd worked round the clock to treat Barry.

"What?" Iris looks back to Barry, taking his hand in hers and squeezing it tight, her concern growing all the more when this time he won't meet her eyes. "What wrong?"

"Iris I—my legs. I can't—I can't feel my legs, Iris, they don't work, they won't move, _I can't move them_, I—" he breaks off in a sob, bringing a fist up to press against his mouth and muffle the sound, his knuckles white as he digs his nails deeper into his skin.

Iris feels her stomach drop, looking to Caitlin and squeezing her eyes shut in horror at Caitlin's nod of confirmation. It's only a fraction of what Barry must be feeling at the moment, and she takes a deep, steadying breath, reaching out to grab the hand he's got pressed up to his face to take it with her free one, easing his tightly clenched fist until his palm sits in hers and she can intertwine his fingers with her own. "Barry…I'm so sorry," she whispers, holding his shaking hands steady in her own, willing herself not to look at his legs. He can't walk, she thinks, and then—

_He can't run._

He closes his eyes, and for a moment she's worried he might try to shut her out, shut all of them out like before, but then there's the slightest pressure against her hands as he squeezes back lightly, and she knows that's all he can manage right now. She just holds his tighter to let him know that she's there, that she understands. And she's not going anywhere.


	52. Part of Something Greater

_**Prompt: zoom kills barry + iris dealing with it**_

**xXx**

It's on every news station that night—they don't even wait a fucking_ day—_and then it's on again the following morning, and afternoon, and night. The day after that. The next week, too. Every time she passes a TV, every time she logs onto her computer, she's presented with that same goddamn video, Zoom shaking Barry's limp and broken body like a fucking ragdoll, declaring his victory in a voice that's kept Iris wide awake nearly every night since.

The first few times she watches the footage, the remote control slipping through numb fingers—useless because it's on every channel, every goddamn fucking channel and she can't escape it no matter how hard she tries—she wonders whether he was already dead, then. Or if it happened sometime after, while his body was being dragged through the streets, paraded around the city like some morbid trophy. It doesn't matter, she supposes. It doesn't change the fact that at some point, he'd stopped breathing, his heart had stopped beating, and it hadn't started again.

Around the fourth time the footage plays on TV—and she can see herself in it, the back of her head, the person filming it must have been_ right behind her _and shehates herself for not smashing their fucking camera to pieces—she throws the remote control at the screen, hard enough to shatter it. Her dad doesn't say anything when he comes home and sees. She figures he's probably grateful.

She asks her new boss (new because Larkin is dead, just like Barry, just like that) for leave from work, and when she asks why Iris tells her it's because there's been the death of a loved one in her life. The woman eyes her dubiously, at first. "West, I know you had some sort of connection with the Flash, but listen, we're all upset about it. I don't think that's reason enough to—"

"The Flash," she cuts her off with acid in her voice, a bitter taste on her tongue because so many people seem to forget, "Was a person. He was a hero, but he wasn't just that. He was my friend. My _best _friend. Barry Allen." Her breath catches on the name, and instinct and habit from keeping the secret for so long, always dancing around the truth in her writing, makes something uneasy clench in her stomach at saying it out loud. But it doesn't really matter who knows anymore, does it? Barry Allen is dead, which means the Flash is dead with him, and there's no need for a secret identity when you're six feet under.

It shocks her boss into saying yes, anyway, and she's glad, because if one more person asks her to write a memorial piece on Central City's fallen hero she thinks she might lose it. That is, if she hasn't already.

For a long time, she doesn't go out much. Can't stand to hear people talk about it like it's just some juicy piece of gossip, can't stomach the banners and trinkets and things all around the city commemorating the Flash, remembering him and what he'd done for all of them now that he's gone. She doesn't really get out of bed much either, can't find the energy. There doesn't seem to be much point.

Eating is a problem too, mostly because everything tastes like nothing, and her stomach never settles, always threatens to throw everything she puts in it right back up. And God, she certainly doesn't sleep—not with the nightmares that it always brings her now. The nightmares that don't quite go away in the morning, either, that she sees every time she closes her eyes. Linda tries to get her to talk, tries to get her to leave the house, tries everything under the sun to try to make things better—even tough love. None of it works.

She and her dad should be there for each other, they should talk about it, be a _family_. There's a million things they should do, but there's just this void in the both of them, a spot in their hearts that had belonged uniquely to Barry that's just _gone_ now, and every time she looks at him and sees how much older he looks, how sad his eyes are, she's reminded of that. And sometimes she can't even stand to be in the same room.

xXx

Wally West comes into her life in a blur of red and yellow that's so familiar it makes her throat close up, and she's distracted for a while from that mind-numbing pain that comes whenever she thinks about the hole in her chest, the huge chunk that's suddenly gone missing from her life. Wally is a good younger brother. He doesn't ask too many questions, and it's something of a comfort that he doesn't know her life before. Doesn't know what's missing. Doesn't know _Barry_. For the first time, she's glad they'd never met until now, even if her dad doesn't take the news well at first.

Things get…not better, not really. But she throws herself into helping Wally take down Zoom, because it's better to be constantly occupied than alone with her thoughts, even though she feels so, so alone, all the time now, even if she's sitting in a room full of people. They recruit the help of Caitlin and Cisco, and the two of them are surprised to hear from her at first after so long of keeping to herself, and for a fleeting moment she even feels bad for not keeping in touch. They look just as tired as she feels.

Wally trains, and trains, and trains, and so does Cisco, developing his powers as Vibe and finding out there's so much more to them than he thought, and it's a good distraction but she really wishes Wally's suit was any color but red. She doesn't mention it, though, even though she hates the constant reminder. Even though there's a little part of her that resents him for wearing it. Maybe even resents _him_, despite how close they've gotten.

In the end, Wally takes Zoom down with Cisco at his side, but Iris is the one that kills him. She's not supposed to. No one is supposed to. Killing him isn't part of the plan, but they knock him out right in front of her and it's the perfect opportunity and Iris is standing so close, watching it all happen, and she's still got the gun her dad gave her on her hip for protection, so she does it. She shoots him when he's already down, already defeated, because she can. And then she shoots him again. And again. And again. Until her finger is numb on the trigger, until her world is a blur of red and all she can think is he killed Barry, he killed Barry, _he deserves to die. _

_Bang!—_Barry's body, lifeless and limp—_Bang!—_Zoom _bragging_ about it, showing off his kill as though he was a hunter and Barry had been nothing more than his prey—_Bang!—_a coffin being lowered into the ground—_Bang!—_a scream, a scream, a scream. She shoots until there are no more bullets left, and she doesn't even notice, keeps pressing her finger down on the trigger and crying harder as it clicks, and clicks, and clicks. It's not until Wally pries the gun from her fingers that the fog clears from her mind, that she realizes _she's_ the one screaming, raw and wild and her throat burns from it.

Her screams taper off into sobs as she falls down hard to her knees, letting her arm fall limp at her side, and she drags her nails down her face and feels something snap inside her, her body shaking so hard her teeth chatter. She cries until it's hard to breathe, until there's nothing left in her, and then she laughs, high and hysterical and mingled in with her tears. There's voices all around her but she can't bring herself to care what they're saying, can't bring herself to care that she probably looks like she's losing it right now. She_ is_ losing it. And then there are familiar hands on her shoulders, gentle but firm, and she lets them coax her to her feet, lets them guide her away.

No one asks her why she did it. No one confronts her about it afterward. They don't have to; they know.

Jay carries the body back to Earth-2, and she doesn't ask what he plans to do with it, just watches it being taken away from her, finally out of her life, with a sick sort of satisfaction.

Later, when she's regained control, she thinks of the looks her friends keep giving her, sad and pitying and maybe a little bit terrified. She thinks of the kick of the gun in her hand, of Zoom's body jerking with every impact, of the pool of blood the body had left in its wake when they'd finally moved it. Maybe it should be concerning, but she visits Barry's grave, and she thinks of what Zoom took from her, and she doesn't regret it. Not even a little bit.

xXx

"You don't talk about him much," Wally says, sitting up on the bed and wincing at the pain the movement causes in his injured ribs. She's sitting by his bedside at STAR Labs with her heart in her throat, because this scene is too familiar, and the last time she'd seen a speedster lying in this very bed they hadn't gotten back up. _Zoom didn't do this, _she reminds herself, but the terror's still there, and she hates that the evil bastard still has this hold on her even though she knows that he's gone. _This was just a regular old meta-human showdown. Just like Barry used to—just like old times._

"You know. Your friend. Barry. But you should," Wally continues, watching her face carefully, "It's not helping you to keep all that in, Iris, and I know you miss him. I know you miss him everyday, but—look. I don't know if this will help, but…I can still feel him out there, you know? It's not…it's not something I can really explain, I don't know, it's like this—"

"Speed force," Iris whispers, remembering the times Barry had talked about being a part of something greater than himself when he ran, with that same look of awe and wonder that Wally is wearing now. She wonders if she's imagining the feeling of something strange hanging in the air, something watching them, like the room is suddenly crackling with electricity. She feels the phantom spark of Barry's touch on her fingers, and brings her hand up to her lips.

"Yeah," Wally says slowly, "Yeah, that sounds right. The thing is, I think that once you're a part of it, you never really leave it. So Barry might not be here physically, but there's this energy that's still uniquely him that I guess is still kind of–floating around in the speed force, I guess? Sometimes I think he's there with me. Helping me along. It's…weird. But it's comforting."

"Thanks, Wally," she says, and she doesn't smile, but she feels just a little bit lighter, a little bit warmer, imaging that her Barry is still out there, somewhere. Maybe even in this room. She hopes he knows, at least, how much she loves him, all the things she never got to say, and maybe this means he can hear her when she talks to his grave, maybe he's not as completely gone from her life as she thought.

She pulls Wally into a hug and holds him tight, thinking how lucky she is to have this brother of hers back in her life and wondering what she would've done if he hadn't shown up when he did. She thinks Barry would've liked him, too. For the first time, that thought doesn't hurt.

xXx

"Miss West!" someone calls out after her as she walks out of Jitters, her coffee warming her numb fingers in the chilly winter air, and she slows down her pace enough for them to catch up. "Sorry—I recognized you from the paper. I read your latest article, the one about that serial arsonist? Saw you on the news, too. I just think it's amazing how dedicated you are to chasing down your stories. Can I—um, can I get your autograph?"

"Of course," Iris smiles kindly at him, glowing a little at the praise, although she's already been scolded by everyone from Linda to her boss to Wally to the team back at STAR about her lack of self-preservation. They're right to be worried, and probably right about why she's doing it, but—she's got it under control. Mostly. She takes the paper and pen the guy is offering to her and decides it can't hurt, and signs her name with flourish. "Thank you for the compliment, by the way. I've always liked being right in the action, you know?"

"Oh, totally," the guy nods, his eyes bright and wide like he can't believe who he's talking to. "I hope you don't mind me asking, but I just couldn't help but wonder–how on_ Earth_ did you get away from that one alive?"

It's a good question, because by all accounts she probably shouldn't have, but she can't quite explain why she's not afraid of much, these days. That's between her and a good friend of hers. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting herself get lost in the feeling of the air against her skin, trying to imagine herself as part of that something more she knows is out there.

"I guess my guardian angel is looking out for me," she says, and she smiles even though she's still hurting. Barry tends to have that effect on her. This time, she knows she's not just imagining the crackle of electricity at her fingertips.


	53. Spiderman Kiss

_**Prompt: Iris/Flash + "spiderman kiss"**_

**xXx**

"How did this even happen?" Iris asks, narrowly suppressing a laugh. The Flash opens his eyes at the sound of her voice, smiling a little at the sight of her, even though she can tell he must be massively uncomfortable.

"Well, hello to you too, Miss West!" The Flash gives her a cheeky grin, eyes flickering to the tell-tale little notebook she's got tucked into her jacket pocket, her phone nestled away in the other. "The real question here is why you're here, and how you found me. I thought I told you to stop charging headfirst towards every sign of danger, especially considering last time."

"That's rich, coming from you," Iris rolls her eyes, but she's smiling too. This is a common routine between the two of them. He fights the bad guys, she follows close behind to get the story behind it. And then the flirting, of course. "I saw the flash of lightning, heard some shouting, followed it here. Speaking of, you still haven't answered my question. We reporters don't appreciate that kind of evasiveness, Flash. What _happened_?"

"Meta-human," the Flash grunts, relenting at the determined look on her face, trying—and failing—to move. "He could shoot this weird goo stuff from its hands. That's apparently very strong. He, uh, caught me off guard. I'm stuck."

"I can see that, but…" this time she does laugh, coming closer to where the Flash is plastered up against a wall, covered from the chest-down in something that looks like hardened slime, his legs and arms and pretty much everything trapped underneath. Her heels click against the concrete as she approaches, and she lets herself smirk in satisfaction at the way his eyes light up, taking in her every movement. "…how did you end up upside down?"

"To be honest, I'm not even really sure. I was moving too—"

"Fast?"

"Yeah. Guy had a lucky shot, I guess. Oh, and don't even _think_ of going after him," he adds, almost as an afterthought, even though he knows that she's going to anyway.

"Well, at least he didn't cover your face," Iris stops in front of him, teasing, blatantly ignoring his warning.

"That's true. It's nice to be able to, you know, breathe."

"Oh, well, that too," she hums, patting his cheek and smiling at the way he leans into her touch. "But I was actually thinking of something else."

He's vibrating his face, just enough to make his features a little less clearly defined, but it's not as much as usual and his heart's clearly not in it. It doesn't really matter, anyway—it'd be hard to recognize anything with everything upside down. Plus, she figures they know each other well enough, in a strange sort of way, where he probably doesn't mind if she could see him. He knows, and she knows, too, that she's persistent enough to figure it out on her own, sooner or later, and that she would keep his secret either way.

"What do you m—" he starts, but Iris doesn't let him finish. She places her hands against either side of his face and kisses him, thanking her lucky stars that his suit leaves his mouth so wonderfully exposed. It's doubly weird, taking in the buzz of his lips against hers with his skin still vibrating, and the odd position that he's in, but it feels nice. Very nice.

His lips are soft—not that that's something she didn't already know—and his tongue grazes the inside of her mouth in a way that makes her breath hitch. She rewards him by dragging his bottom lip through her teeth and pulling it up in her direction, made all the easier by the fact that she's still hovering over him. He looks dazed as she pulls away, opening his eyes as though coming out of a trance, and she wonders if it's her that's making him look so light-headed or the fact that all the blood is probably rushing to his head from being upside down for so long. It's probably a little bit of both, she concedes. It's not the first time they've done this, won't be the last, but it's always a treat.

"Do you have someone coming to get you out of this mess?" she asks, wiping away the wetness she's left on his chin, feeling the warmth blossoming in her chest at the way he's still looking at her, his eyes bright and his features no longer vibrating, his lips red and swollen, all because of her.

"Aww, is Central City's very own Ace-Reporter Iris West worried about little old me?" he jokes, no doubt trying to sound smug, but it comes off as sounding more breathless than anything.

"Shut up," Iris laughs, lifting up a hand to shove his shoulder before realizing it's still encased in that weird goo. She lets her hand drop and flicks the top of his head instead, wondering what kind of hair he's hiding underneath the suit, wishing she could run her fingers through it. "Well? It's a yes or no question."

"Yep, help is on the way," he says, trying to nod but only succeeding in banging his head against the wall behind him. He winces a bit in pain. "Okay, oww."

"Good," Iris laughs, leaning down to place a kiss on his cheek, and then thinking _fuck it_, ghosting over his lips one last time to whisper against them. "Because I've got a story to chase. Until next time, Flash."

She doesn't wait for his response, just whirls around and starts hurrying away, following the trail of goo that'll lead her to what she's looking for. She counts it as a victory that she's left him momentarily speechless enough that it takes him until she's almost out of view to yell his usual _"Wait!" _and "_You can't—_" and _"Be careful!_"

She grins to herself, her lips still tingling pleasantly and her skin buzzing with excitement. God, she really loves her job.


	54. The Love Kiss

_**Prompt: Westallen + The Love Kiss**_

_[The love kiss is any kiss that you give while thinking tender, loving thoughts about your partner. You might not realize it, but your kissing style can be influenced by whatever's on your mind. Smooching with love on your mind will make your kisses extra soft and sweet. Whether it's on your partner's mouth, neck, ear or forehead, the love kiss is the most romantic kiss you can give.]_

**xXx**

Iris has always stood by the fact that actions speak louder than words. This is especially true for her, because even though she's a reporter and a writer and words are what she does, what she creates and crafts and commands in whatever way she sees fit, she always finds herself at a loss for them at the most inopportune times. The times, of course, when she needs them most.

Like now, like last week, like last month, like the million times she's tried to tell him since the moment she came to the realization that this was what she wanted. Not that there was really a defining moment, now that she thinks about it. It was more of a long series of moments, of realizing that it would change things but that that was okay, of letting fate win, just this once, because there was no more denying that it was right. The realization was more of an acceptance of something she already knew, had probably known for a long time.

How do you tell someone you're done waiting? How do you make up for months and maybe years worth of lost time, and everything your life has thrown at you since? How do you tell someone you love them when it's actually so, so much more than just that? Maybe you don't tell them after all, she thinks. Maybe you just have to _show _them.

There's still that little bit of uncertainty nagging at the back of her mind–not uncertainty about this decision, not at all, but about how he'll react. Is it too soon? Maybe. He's just broken up with Patty, but then again he's also freely admitted that a big part of the reason for that was her. Would always be her.

And besides, 'too soon' is kind of a moot point when this has already been such a long time coming, isn't it? She's had enough of dancing around the matter, of trying to get his attention with light touches and lingering gazes, and she's done with trying to tell him and then backing out at the last second. So she does what she does best. Which is that she just _does_.

She gets off early from work, and she knows from talking to him earlier that he'll still be cooped up in his lab, where he'll probably be all night with the giant report Captain Singh has him working on. She says goodbye to Linda and Linda gives her a thumbs up and an encouraging little smile, a heartfelt _"You got this" _and _"You have nothing to worry about; you've always had this one,"_ and she smiles back to show her gratitude, but she's worried that it means the nervousness must show on her face.

Still, she leaves with her heart in her throat, butterflies in her stomach, her skin buzzing with nerves and excitement and anticipation and every other romantic cliché to ever exist, and wonders if this is anything close to what Barry must have been feeling on a chilly December night just a little over a year ago. She thinks she finally might understand why he waited so long to tell her–at least she has the luxury of knowing her feelings are reciprocated. _So then why is she still so nervous?_

He's leaning over his microscope when she comes in–the one she bought him, she notes, a warm feeling curling in her chest–completely engrossed in his work, and she gives herself a few moments to just stand in the doorway and watch him at it, tongue poking out between his lips, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, frankly looking adorable.

She smiles fondly to herself and clears her throat, stifling a laugh behind her fingers at the way he jumps, nearly falling out of his chair as he's brought back down to Earth. "Iris! Hi!" he says brightly, scrambling to his feet when he sees her approaching, quickly recovering from his embarrassment with a smile that spreads across his face. It's genuine and warm and so happy just by virtue of her being there and being _her_, and she wonders how she ever could have been nervous or unsure about this. "I thought you had work today?"

"Hi Barry," Iris smiles, stopping in front of him, and then she gives him a hug just because she can, wraps her arms tight around his middle and squeezes him close, burying her face in his flannel. If he's surprised by this sudden display of affection he doesn't show it, just hugs her back with equal amounts of enthusiasm, just as tightly, as though this is the most natural and normal thing in the world. "I did have work, but I got off sort of early. Although it is already past seven, you know," she says, stepping back, and immediately misses the contact as her arms fall back down to her sides, her fingers still itching to touch.

"What?" he blinks, and looks towards the window, as though just realizing that it's dark out. "Oh, wow. I didn't even realize it was night time. I've been working on this report all day and then Singh gave me _more _evidence to process on top of all that. I think it's turned my brain to mush."

"Well, why don't you take a break?" she says, and when he opens his mouth to protest, she puts a gentle hand on his arm and gives him a nervous smile, her skin buzzing, the butterflies in her stomach suddenly back ten-fold. "So we can talk? Actually, there's something I've been meaning to tell you, anyway. It's kind of important. Can't wait."

"More important than the report that Singh promised he'd have my head for if I didn't finish by tomorrow?" Barry jokes, but she can tell his heart's not in it. If she has something to say, she knows he'll listen, no matter how much work he's got hanging over his head.

"I think so, yeah. I'm pretty sure you'd agree."

"Okay, well, you got me. What is it?" He moves to sit back down, but Iris tightens her grip on his arm and shakes her head. He gives her a quizzical look but shrugs, straightening back up to face her.

_I love you_ her mind is screaming it so loud it's making her head spin, and yet when she tries to say the words out loud they just won't come. She's thinking it and she's feeling it but it's almost like it's so much, it's _too_ much to get out in just three little words. Not after all this time.

"I…" she swallows, her mind predictably going blank as she searches his face, counts the moles and freckles from his neck up to his face, watches the way his eyelashes flutter when he blinks and the way his lips move when he speaks again, curling down around the edges in confusion.

"Iris? Why are you looking at me like that? Do I have something on my face?" he asks, running a hand over his mouth, suddenly self-conscious.

She shakes her head, stepping into his personal space, backing him up against his desk so that he has nowhere to go. "Iris…?" he asks again, his voice soft and breathless and just a little bit hopeful. "What was it that you wanted to tell me?"

"I've been thinking," she tries, but the rest gets lost as she watches the nervous bob of his adam's apple in that long neck of his, the slight part of his lips, the way his eyes light up and his breath hitches when she places a hand on the side of his face, cups his cheek and rubs a thumb across his skin.

"Barry," she says, takes a deep breath, and in the end that's all she says. Instead, she stands on her tip-toes and let's her weight fall against his, keeps one hand on his face and splays the other out against his chest, right over his heart, feeling the reassuring beat of it underneath her fingertips–more of a buzz than a thump, thump, thump, and she wonders if this is it's normal speed or if it's maybe going just a little bit faster because of her.

She'll still maintain that _she _kisses _him _first, even though by the time she leans up to him he's already meeting her halfway, for once fast to catch on without the help of his speed. Either way it doesn't really matter, because she's kissing him and she's kissing him and she's kissing him and she feels warm from the top of her head to the tips of her toes, and this is what it feels like, she thinks, to kiss the love of your life. Like their lips were made for kissing yours, and yours were made for kissing theirs, because they fit perfectly together, and everything feels so beautiful and so natural and so right, and she honestly can't believe it's taken her so long to do this. That _this_ is what she's been missing out on, all these years.

She does her best to pour a lot of unsaid things into the kiss, all of the things she can't seem to find the words for, _I want this _and _I need this_ and _I love you, I love you, I love you_ and so, so much more. Judging by the arm that tightens around her, pulls her so close she's not even sure where she ends and he begins, and the hand that comes up to cradle her face, she's fairly certain he gets the picture. His lips move seamlessly against hers, soft and pliant and eager as if to say_ finally_, so she chases his mouth and lets her lips part against his, his tongue sweeping her bottom lip, to tell him _I know_.


End file.
